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Popular Dialogues 



COMPRISING 



A great variety of original material expressly- 
prepared by a corps of experienced 
writers 



Arranged by 



PHINEAS GARRETT 

Editor of the 'MOO Choice Selections " Series 



Philadelphia 

The Penn Publishing Company 

1398 






9804 



Copyright 1898 by The Penn Publishing Company 




TWO COPIES RECEIVED. 



2nd COPY, 
1898. 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

Waiting foe the Stage . . . F. Crosby, A. 31. 5 

The Teoublesome Investment A. F. Bradley 14 

The Pueitan's Dilemma . . . F. Crosby, A. M. 45 

A Scene in Court A Member of the Baltimore Bar 53 

The Mutual Development 
Society ; or, Capital versus 

Labor Dr. R. Morris Swander ... 65 

Patent Medicine F. Crosby, A.M. 74 

The Premature Proposal . . Dramatized by A. F. Bradley 89 
The Misfortune of Civil 

War . \. Mrs. Dr. R. Morris Swander . 99 

All the Comforts of a Home F. Crosby, A. M. 106 

The Suffrage Question • • • A Member of the Baltimore Bar 111 

Jack at all Trades . . . . F. Crosby, A. M. 127 

Helen MacTrever H. S. Kent 136 

Trusting Too Far ; or, Learn- 
ing by Experience . . . . H. M. Garrett 149 

Reading Works of Fiction — 

A Debate F. Crosby, A. M. . . . . . 159 

The Arcadian Club; or, 

Theory versus Practice . . .4. F. Bradley 175 

The Town Meeting . . . , . A Member of the Baltimore Bar 18S 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 



WAITING FOR THE STAGE. 

CHARACTERS. 

Simple Simon, Jr., a victimized Western youtfi. 

Broadbrim Braithwaite, a Friend. 

Silas Partridge, commercial traveller. 

Mr. Stunner, a Southerner. 

James Plush, a nice young man. 

Franz Mahler, artist. 

Amelia, sister of Franz, just from Germany. 

Mrs. Flynn, Irish grocery-woman. 

Daniel and Ellen, her children. 

Mrs. Bunch, elderly lady. 

LUCELIA FLUTTERBY, ) r , • , , 

t? t? Y fashionable misses. 

Flora b enton, J 



Office ofPuckertoivn Stage — Dingy little room — Hard-looking 
settees — Floor untidy with dirt, tobacco spittle, cigar-stumps^ 
and litter — Walls covered with stage and railway hand- 
bills, notices, &c. 

Stunner [addressing Broadbrim, the only passenger yet 
in waiting]. — So we've got to wait an hour and better 
before the stage starts ? 

Broadbrim. — Thee'll not see the stage before three 
o'clock, friend. 

Stunner. — It's mighty tedious, this yer waitin' ! It's 
right smart to three 3'et, I reckon. [ Taking out watch.'] 
Humph ! She's stopped! 

Broadbrim. — Thee has friends in Puekertown ? 

Stunner. — My nephew lives out several miles on the 
road. It's some } T ears now since I've travelled that way. 
Yesterday was a juicy day — I didn't think I'd get to go 
to-day. However, it has turned out pretty enough. 

Broadbrim. — Fine day for harvesting. 

Stunner — Yes — since the blackberry rain the crop* 

5 



6 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

have had a smart chance to ripen. How do things look 
about you? 

Broadbrim. — Very well — very well indeed. [Pause.] 

[Simple Simon enters and looks around inquiringly — 
finally, having perused the bills on the walls, seats him- 
self.-] 

I don't know when grain has looked finer. I think not 
for years. 

Simon. — I say, stranger [to Broadbrim], do you know 
whether anybody round these diggins wants help ? I 
thought as you spoke of harvestin' it mought be you'd 
know where a chap like me could get a job. 

[Stunner devotes himself to the handbills.] 

Broadbrim. — Thee wasn't raised in these parts, I ob- 
serve. 

Simon. — No — most likely I wasn't. 'Pears like as if I 
was pretty much run agin a stump in 'em, anyhow ! [At- 
tempting to laugh.] 

Broadbrim. — Does thee speak of some misfortune ? 
Perhaps thee has not fared well, or has lost something ? 

Simon. — Not exactly lost any thing. 

Broadbrim. — I trust thee's not fallen into bad com 
pany. Thee certainly looks as if thee was not accustomed 
to such. 

Simon — You're right, stranger ; I begin to think I was 
a fool for leaving the shebang. I could whip my weight 
in wildcats, if I was only once on the perary agin. 

Partridge [entering — catching the last part of remark — 
halts]. — You never heerd tell of 'Bije Skinner round Chi- 
cager or lower, did you, boy? [To Simon.] 

Simon. — Nary Skinner. But how'd yer know I come 
from Chicager? 

Partridge. — I guessed as much from 3 r our yaller skin 
and your trick of the tongue. Don't hev no fevcr'n ager 
out that way, do you ? They hev it jest beyond, don't 
they? 

Simon. — Whatever you may signify by that, you won't 
find such rantankerous scoundrels — not by a long shot — 
as walk the streets to the east'ard. 

Partridge. — I didn't mean to rile your feelings — 
couldn't take offence at what I said. I'll leave it to the 
gentleman [turning to Broadbrim], 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 7 

Broadbrim. — Indeed, I think not. The young man 
seems a little uneasy about something that has occurred 
outside. I was just thinking where he might find busi- 
ness this way. 

Partridge [to Simon']. — — h ! Lost your chist ? 

Simon. — Bein' as you act like you were inclined to hear, 
I'll give you jest a mite of my history. [Flush enters 
and becomes a listener.'] You see as how I was raised 
out toward the frontier whar people make each other 
mighty welcome and jine aginst the Ingins. I've had 
some experience in that line myself, though I've only jist 
turned of age. I've lived through dumb-ager and the 
like, but the gold fever got me bad a few weeks ago, 
and the folks tried to help me off. We scraped together, 
among us all, money enough to pay my shot to Australy ; 
but them as has knocked around this way before told me 
over and over agin not to let them New Yorkers cheat 
me — and the fact is, stranger, I've ben and gone and done 
it, without the least notion of hevin' it done. 

Partridge. — You don't say ! Du tell ! 

Simon. — Yes, but I do, though — and sorry enough I 
am to do it, too. Why [leaning forward with his elbows 
on his knees and emphasizing with his hands], I'd got 
clear down to the Australy steamer, lookin' for a ticket- 
office, when a good-lookin' feller with his biled shirt and 
store-clothes on come along, and I asked for a little in- 
formation. "Oh, goin' to Australy!" said he, "I've ben 
there — I'll show you where to git your ticket; or just 
hand me your money, and I'll git it for } r ou I" And so 
I did, like a catawampous fool — but he was gone, like 
shot off a shovel, and the perlice couldn't help me. It's 
meaner 'n any skullduggery we have out in our ked'ntry. 
The sneakin' painter 1 He jest pulled the wool right over 
my eyes, and I came mighty near hevin' nary red left to 
my name. I promised to send 'em some word hum, but 
I'll be lynched if I ain't ashamed to let 'em know how 
owdaciously I've ben gulled. It puts me back a heap, I 
tell you. Never expected I should come so near goin' 
up in all my life. 

Partridge. — That's the game of these confidence men. 
" Misery likes company," they say ; and I might tell how 
I went through 'bout the same kind of dicker. The feller 



8 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

pretended to know all my first wife's relations — and hang 
me if I stopped to think, all the time he was jabberin', 
that I never was married ! Fact, I declare ! Now talk 
about your fools — will 3 r er? 'Twill do you goodl Did 
me — nothin' like gettin' your eye-teeth cut early ! Ye'll 
look out sharper next time. What are y e goin' to du ? 

Simon. — Work my passage out or back agin. 

Broadbrim. — Thee seems honest, friend. 

Simon. — Middling I reckon. I say, stranger, have you 
turned it over yit whether thar's work anywhar about 
you ? 

Broadbrim. — Thee's welcome to my entertainment till 
thee has judged whether thee can be suited. 

Simon. — Thank ye, stranger 1 Glad of so good a port 
in a storm. 

[Franz Mahler, gentleman with slight foreign air and 
accent, has meanwhile entered with Amelia, neatly dressed 
but somewhat noticeable from the foreign look of her attire 
— points her to a seat — she sits with a curious satchel in 
hand, looking about — he takes out newspaper and reads."] 

Partridge [to Broadbrim]. — I think I've seen your 
face afore, Mister ! 

Broadbrim. — Thee has the advantage of me, then, 
friend ! 

Partridge [to Stunner]. — That young man [pointing 
to Plush who has taken a seat by Stunner] ain't your son 
— is he ? 

Stunner. — Not that I ever heard mentioned. 'Pears 
like a sort of somebod}^ though — if he didn't make me 
think of a lieutenant that took off some of my horses 
during the war. 

Plush. — I'm not the sort they make those characters 
out of, sir ! [somewhat resenting the insinuation. ~\ 

Stunner. — I should think not. Them chaps did a heap 
of stealin' over and above what they had any authority 
for. I owed the whole set a grudge afore they stole half 
my property. I never bought or sold a man in my life 
but that emancipation swindle took off fifty blacks boru 
and raised on the place I inherited from my father. 

PLUSH.— It did ! What a loss I And you git nothin' 
from Gover'ment for all that? 

Stunner. — All my horses stolen- and throats that I'd 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 9 

have to vamose the ranch myself if I didn't look out ! 1 
laughed in my sleeve some when they thought to take 
me for givin' aid to the South ; and thinks I to myself, 
" Young man, there's a case against you for takin' the 
horse that carried the man that carried the money to my 
son in the Confederate army, down in Georgy I" 

Plush.— Well! — I declare ! 

Stunner. — Now, here's a thing I've thought of [rolling 
a quid in mouth'], and I've asked a good many and never 
got any answer — [talcing out greenback'] — how, when you 
give your note to a man, it isn't worth any thing — is it — 
if your name is printed on it ? You must sign it — mustn't 
you? 

Plush. — Of course you must. 

Stunner. — Well, then [Broadbrim draws near], here 
are these notes all over the country, promisin' millions — 
not one of 'em signed. Who's responsible ? Did you 
ever think of that ? 

Plush. — Well — I declare — that's a puzzler to me ! 

Stunner. — It may be one of my old-farmer notions, 
but I'd like to see any lawyer prove the constitutionality 
of that ! What is perishable is not legal tender — only 
gold and silver are legal tender. I wouldn't give a 
picayune for all the government bonds in existence. 

Broadbrim. — Friend, thee'd better stick to thy calling. 
Politics is less honorable and profitable than farming. 

Stunner. — A man can speak his mind, I reckon, in 
some parts of this country, yet, sir. 

[Misses Lucelia and Flora, dressed in the extreme of 
fashion, rush in — look around and talk loudly, with an 
affected drawl.] 

Lucelia. — Why, Flor, there isn't no ticket office J 
[whirling around to look for her companion.] 

Flora. — Of course not — only a box to wait in. 

Lucelta. — Well, I'm not going to wait here — that's 
fixed ! [standing with nose elevated and chewing tip of 
parasol.] Come, Flor. 

[ Their attention arrested by the appearance of Amelia ; 
they stand staring, till Amelia, overcome by modest sensi' 
tiveness, blushes — her eyes drop, and tears fall — they smilt 
contemptuously and pass away.] 



10 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

Luoelia [as she retires']. — Did you ever, Flor ? 1 
thought it would kill me dead ! 

Partridge. — Carried cousid'ble sail — them are ! [spit- 
ting). 

Franz [looking up from paper and surprised to see 
sister weeping). — Was ist mit dir, Amelia ? Du weinst ! 

Amelia. — Ich weiss nicht. Ich habe nichts gethan ! 

Partridge. — Them little chits needn't have been quite 
so sassy as to stare and laugh a body so out of counte- 
nance 'cause that body didn't cut just so outlandish a 
figger as they did 1 Do 'em good to be taken down a 
notch or two ! 

Franz [rising and walking about). — ,r Tis but a sample 
of American politeness ! [warmly.) Everywhere in dis 
country one is struck by de vulgarity of its men and 
women. Gentlemen and ladies, dey do call themselves ; 
but who, except demselves, can recognize dem by dat 
title ? I speak of dem as a class. Dey are so seldom 
wurdy dat distinction. Dey are destitute of de first 
element dat goes to make such characters. One dat 
travels can most easily notice de difference. A woman 
can claim so much in dis country and presume upon her 
prerogatives! 'Tis too much, unless she have sense 
enough to know her place. Pardon me, gentlemen, I did 
not intend to say so much ; but wid de repeated instances 
I have witnessed, I am doroughly disgusted. When a 
woman does unsex herself and drow away her dignity, 
I have just as much right to slap her face as I 
have to slap a man's — and I would do it, too I Dese 
American snobs ! Pf-st ! Dey do excite one now and den 
almost beyond his reason ! [vehemently.) 

Partridge [to Plush). — Putty plucky little furrire'r, 
anyhow ! 

Franz. — I am republican — I don't say Black Repub- 
lican to narrow the word — but I speak broadly. 1 have 
been an exile dese seventeen years for dat cause — for de 
boyish dreams. I secure de privilege of visiting my 
faderland by much trouble. I do despise dese people who 
make money deir standard — whose only title to nobility 
is noding but money — who have no past, no bruins, no 
anyding but vulgar airs 1 I have seen too much equality, 
even in despotic countries — where all races, ranks, and 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 11 

colors meet togeder, receiving respect for deir humanity 
— not to be ashamed of de t} r pe of republicanism one sees 
in cars and omnibuses and on the streets I [Pauses."] 

Partridge. — My ! ain't his dander riz ! 

Franz [boot unluckily hit by an ejected quid].— Ladies! 
Gentlemen ! Pfui! Bipeds, that shpit and shpit and 
shpit demselves all to shpit ! Shpit here — [pointing] — 
shpit dere — shpit everywhere! [Gesticulating.] In 
Germany gentlemen shpit nowhere. [Turns to Amelia, 
who, not understanding him, looks somewhat frightened 
and wondering: 1st nichts, Amelia! 1st nichts ! Re- 
sumes seat and reads. Door opens — Mrs. Bunch, with a 
bundle, smiling and trotting along, looks for a seat. Franz 
jumps up and offers his, into which she sinks, smiling still 
more,] 

Mrs. B — We're a heap of trouble! Ha — ha — ha! 
[Plush whistles " Wait for the Wagon I"] 

Franz. — Not at all, madam ! 

Mrs. Flynn [rushing in, loaded with budgets and bun- 
dles, followed by her children]. — Find a sate thare ! Find 
a sate, chilther ! Misther, jest give the chilther the tip 
end of nothing — will yees ? [To Broadbrim, who, near 
the end of the settee, manages to give a little more room.] 
Have 3^ou the umberil, Ellie ? 

Ellen. — Yas, mither ! 

Broadbrim [interested in boy's appearance]. — What is 
tlry name, my little man ? 

Daniel [bashfully]. — Daniel. 

Broadbrim. — Daniel I Thee must prove a good man 
to merit thy name. 

Mrs. F. [looking over budgets, thinks she has lost some- 
thing'] — Holy mither ! Ellie, where iver did the man put 
the shoes? 

Ellie. — In the baskit, mither — at the bottom. 

Mrs. F. — Let me look and be shure — or I lose me 
day's work I [After rummaging, finds tl\em and composes 
herself] 

Broadbrim [offering seat]. — Thee will find it more 
comfortable to sit than to stand. 

Mrs. F. [accepting.] — Thank ye, sir ! Much obleeged 
to yees, sir! Thank ye, sir — savin' yer prisince, ye's a 
most lady-like gintleman 1 Here, darlints ! [Handing 



12 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

each child a ginger-cake.'] Ate, and make yersilves as asy 
as ye can ! 

Partridge [to Franz, putting away paper]. — What's 
the news, mister ? How's gold ? 

Franz. — 140, I believe. 

Partridge. — Goin' up— ain't it ? What's the reason, 
now, I wonder ? 

Franz. — Fiance anticipates war, I believe. 

Partridge. — You don't come from France, I calker- 
late? 

Franz. — No — I am from Hanover. 

Partridge. — Now, where's that? Much of a place? 
When I've managed to pile away a few rocks I mean to 
spend a clay or two lookin' round over there. Never 
ben to Nyagery — have ye ? You oughtcr go there. You 
look like one of them as makes picters — ain't ye? [Await- 
ing a reply.] 

Franz. — I am an artist, sir — and have seen Niagara. 

Partridge. — I thought's much. Wall, as I was goin' 
to say, when I was there once an old chap was along who 
didn't seem to know what to say about it. " That's ma- 
jestic !" sa}'S I. " Thank you !" said he, " I was at a loss 
for a word !" " It's the most beautifullest, rnajesticest 
thing I ever seen," says I. I expect he hain't got away 
yit, the old feller. That's your sister — ain't it ? 

Franz. — Excuse me, sir — I cannot tolerate your imper- 
tinence longer 1 [ Walking away.] 

Partridge. — 'Pears a leetle huffy ! [Drawing toward* 
Mrs Bunch.] Trav'lin' alone? 

Mrs. B. — Yes — nigh on to thirty yeer since he went. 
He was a nice good man — he was ! lie was a peacemaker 
— Mr. Bunch was! And I trust he went straight to Beel- 
zebub's bosonf — I do! 

Partridge. — You don't say! Was he rich? Any 
children ? 

Mrs. B. — I didn't quite understand }'ou, sir ! Yes — 
out to my son-in-law's — owns a pretty large farm — seven 
children — three boys and four girls — all down with the 
small-pox or suthin' a bit ago — Doctor called it measles 
gone astray. I don't know what it was. 

Stunner [to Broadbrim]. — Three and better- isn't it? 
I'll lay we've waited here more'n two hours. 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 13 

Broadbrim [looking at watch']. — Thee's wrong, friend 
It lacks seven minutes of three. 

Partridge [to Mrs. Flynn"]. — Better git your traps 
together, niarm— hadn't ye ? Stage'll be along d'rectly ! 

Mrs. F.— Who are ye, sir? I've been over this road 
many a day, an' niver a bit without payin' me fare, sir ! 
But I niver saw the likes of ye here before ! 

Lucelia [rushing in with Flora"]. — Oh dear! I'm just 
dead i I thought we should miss it, after all ! 

Flora. — Aren't we lucky ? Just in time ! 

[Flush rises and offers seat. Flora seats herself. Lu 
celia looks as if Mr. Stunner should relinquish his, 
remarking : " No gentleman ! Not to give a seat to a 
lady!" Horn is heard.] 

Partridge. — Hooray ! The hominy-pot's arriv ! [rush- 
ing out to secure a seat.] 

[Stunner seizes portmanteau and frantically endeavors 
to get out.] 

Plush [to Lucelia and Flora]. — Shall I secure the back 
seat for you, ladies ? 

Both. — Please, sir ! 

[Flush leaves, followed by them ] 

Broadbrim [to Simon awaking from a nap]. — Friend, 
thee accompanies me, I believe ? 

Simon. — As you say, stranger ! 

[Mrs. Bunch hobbles out after Mrs. Flynn, children and 
bundles. Franz follows with Amelia.] 

Franz [to Broadbrim]. — Deliver us from bundles, 
'baccy and boxes — the universal accompaniment ©/ 
American trav Ailing ! 

[ Curtain falls.] 



14 POPULAR DIALOGUES 



THE TROUBLESOME INVESTMENT. 

DRAMATIZED FROM 

J. T. TROWBRIDGE'S "COUPON BONDS." 

DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

Mr. Ducklow, a miserly old farmer. 

Mrs. Ducklow, his wife. 

Thaddeus, adopted son of Mr. Ducklow. 

Miss Beswick, a tall, gaunt spinster, dressing old stvle. 

Reuben, a returned soldier, also adopted son of Mr. 

Ducklow. 

Sophronia, his wife. 

Ruby, their little son. 

Kerring, ) . , , r d v 

T ' } neighbors of Reuben. 

Jepworth, j & 

Josiah, son-in-law of Mr. Ducklow. 

Laura, his wife. 

Dick Atkins, friend of Thaddeus. 

Farmer Atkins, and others. 



Scene I. — A kitchen — Mrs. Ducklow sitting knitting by the 
light of a kerosene lamp — A table set with a single platet 
knife and fork, etc., etc. 

Taddy [behind the stair door, reluctantly kicking off a 
pair of trousers']. — Say, ma, need I go to bed now [start- 
ing to pull on trousers] ? He'll want me to hold the lantern 
for him to take care of the hoss. 

Mrs. Ducklow.— No, no, Taddy. You'll only be in the 
way, rf you set up. Besides, I want to mend youi pants. 

Tad. — You're always wantin' to mend my pants [whin- 
ing'}. 1 wish there wasn't such a thing as pants in the 
world. 

Mrs. D.— Don't talk that way, after all the trouble and 
expense we've been to clothe you ! Where would you be 
now, if it wern't for me and your Pa Dueklow I 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 15 

Tad. [muttering."] — I shouldn't be goin' to bed when I 
don't want to ! 

Mrs. D. — You ungrateful child ! Wouldn't be goin' to 
bed when you don't want to ! You wouldn't be going to 
bed when you want to, more likely ; for ten to one you 
wouldn't have a bed to go to. Think of the sitewation 
you was in when we adopted ye, and then talk that way ! 

Tad. {thrusting his hand into his pants and tearing the 
hole larger, talking to himself.] — If she likes to patch so 
well, let her. 

Mrs. D. — Taddy, you are tearing them pants. 

Tad. — I was pullin' 'em off. I never see such mean 
cloth. Can't tech it but it has to tear. Say, ma, do you 
think he'll bring me home a drum ? 

Mrs. D. — You'll know in the morning. 

Tad. — I want to know to night. He said maybe he 
would. Say, can't I set up ? 

Mrs. D. — I'll let ye know whether ye can set up after 
you're been told so many times [lays down her knitting 
and seizes a rattan, and Taddy elopes]. 

Tad. [upstairs.] — I'm a-bed ! Say, ma, I'm a-bed ; I'm 
'most asleep a'ready! 

Mrs. D. — It's a good thing for you, \'ou be [gathering 
up the pants Taddy dropped.] — Why, Tadd} r , how ye did 
tear them ! I've a good notion to give you a trouncing 
now. [ Taddy snores, Mrs. D takes up the pants and ex- 
amines them.] It is mean cloth, as he sa}^s. For my part, 
I consider it a great misfortune that shoddy was ever in- 
vented. Ye can't buy any sort of a ready-made garment 
for*boys now-a-days, but it comes to pieces, on the least 
wear or strain, like so much brown paper [sits down and 
shapes the patch — sounds of wheels without — looks out into 
the darkness]. That you ? 

Mr. D.— Yes. 

Mrs. D. — Ye want the lantern ? 

Mr. D.—No, jest set the lamp in the winder, and I 
guess I can get along. Whoa ! 

Mrs. D. [in low voice.] — Had good luck? 

Mr. D. — I'll tell ye when I come in. 

Tad. [shouting from the bedroom.] — Has he brought me 
a drum t 



1 6 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

Mrs. D. — Do ye want me to come up there and tend 
to ye ? 

Tad.— No, I don't. 

Mrs D. — You be still and go to sleep, then, or yoiCll 
get drummed! 

[Mrs. D. busy setting up the meal. Enter Mr. D.,with 
packages of sugar, tea, box of matches, etc., etc.~\ 

Mrs. D [relieving him of his bundles."] — Did you buy— 

Mrs. D. — [points inquiringly at the stair door.~\ 

Mrs. D. — Taddy? Oh, he's abed! though I never in 
my life had such a time to git him off out of the way ; for 
he'd somehow got possessed of the idee that you was to 
buy something, and he wanted to set up and see what it 
was. 

Mr. D. — Strange how children will ketch things some- 
times, best ye can do to prevent 1 

Mrs. D. — But did ye buy ? 

M*r. D. — Ye'd better jest take them matches and put 
'em out of the way, fust thing, afore ye forgit it ; matches 
are dangerous to have layin' round, and I never feel safe 
till they 1 re safe [Mr D. hangs up his hat, takes his over- 
coat off and lays it across a chair very cautiously']. 

Mrs. D. — Come, what is the use of keeping me in sus- 
pense: did ye buy? 

Mr. D. [taking down the bootjack.] — Where did ye 
put 'em ? 

Mrs. D. — In the little tin pail, where we always keep 
'em, of course. Where should I put 'em ? 

Mr. D. — You needn't be cross ! I asked, because I 
didn't see you put the kiver on. I don't believe ye 
did put the kiver on, either ; and I shan't be easy till 
ye do. 

[Mrs. D. goes to the pantry, in anger, and puts on the lid. 
Mr. D. leans over the chair, and hears it.] 

Mr D. [pressing the heel of his right boot in the jack, 
and steadying the toe under the round of a chair.] — Any- 
body been here to-day ? 

Mrs. D. [crossly.]— No I 
Mr. D. — Ye been anywhere? 
Mcb. D.-Yes! 

Mr. D [mildly ]— Where ? 

Mrs. D. [angrily.] — No matter. 
1 13 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 17 

Mr. I) [sighing deeply. ] — Wal, you be about the most 
uncomfortable woman ever I see. 

Mrs. D. — If you can't answer my question, I don't see 
why I need take the trouble to answer yours. [ Turns 
with compressed lips to her sewing.] Yer supper's ready ; 
ye can eat it when ye please. 

Mr. D. [in a very mild tone.'] — I was answering your 
question as fast as I could. 

Mrs. D [sewing away.] — I haven't seen any signs of 
yer answering it. 

Mr. D. — Wal, wal ! Ye don't see every thing. [Draw- 
ing gently his second boot, a paper falls out, which he picks 
up and hands triumphantly to Mrs. Ducklow.] 

Mrs. D. [talcing it.] — Oh, indeed ! is this the [Ex- 
amines with satisfaction.] But what made ye carry 'em 
in yer boot so ? 

Mr. D. [in a suppressed voice.] — To tell the truth, I 
was afraid o' being robbed. I never was so afraid of 
being robbed in my life ; so jest as I got clear of the 
town I tucked it down my boot-leg. Then all the way 
home I was skeer'd when I was riding alone, and still more 
skeer'd when I heard anybody coming after me. You see 
it's jest like so much money. [Closes the window curtain, 
explains.] This is the bond, ye see, and all these little 
things that fill out the sheet are the coupons. You have 
only to cut off one of these, take it to the bank when it 
is due, and draw the interest on it in gold. 

Mrs. D. — But suppose you lose the bonds? 

Mr. D.— That's what I've been thinking of; that's what 
made me so narvous. I supposed 'twould be like so much 
railroad stock, good for nothing to nobody but the owner, 
and somethin' that could be replaced if I lost it. But 
the man to the bank said no, 'twas like so much currency, 
and I must look out for it. That's what filled all the 
bushes with robbers as I came along the road. And I 
tell ye 'twas a relief to feel I'd got safe home at last, 
though I don't see now how we're to keep the plaguy 
things so we sha'n't feel oneasy about 'em. 

Mrs. D. [turning pale.] — Nor I neither ! Suppose the 
house should take fire or burglars break in ? I don't 
wonder you was so particular about the matches. Dear 
me, I shall be frightened to death. I'd no idee 'twas to 



18 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

be such dangerous property ! I shall be thinking of fires 
and burglars. [Taddy at the stair door.] — h — h — h! 
[Taddy falls headlong towards the papers. General con- 
fusion.'] 

Mrs. D. — Thaddeus ! How came you here? Git up! 
Give an account of yourself! What ye want ? What 
ye here for? [Snatching him up by one arm and shak* 
ing him.] 

Taddy [rubbing his eyes drowsily.] — Don't know. Fell. 

Mr. D. [savagely.]— Fell ! How did you come to fall? 
What are } r ou out of bed for ? 

Tad. [snivelling and rubbing his eyes.] — Don't know; 
didn't know I was. 

Mrs. D — Got up without knowing it ! That's a likely 
story ! How could that happen }'ou, sir ? 

Tad. — Don't know, 'thout it was, I got up in my sleep. 

Mr. D. — In your sleep ? 

Tad. — I guess so. I was dreamin' } t ou brought me 
home a new drum — tucked down yer boot-leg. 

Mr. D. [glancing at his wife.] — Strange! But how 
could T bring a drum in my boot-leg ? 

Tad. — Don't know, 'thout it's a new kind, one that'll 
shet up. [Looking eagerly around. Mrs. D. tucks the 
bonds into the envelope.] Say, did ye, pa ? 

Mr. D. — Did I ? Of course I didn't. What nonsense ! 
But how came ye down here ? Speak the truth. 

Tad. — I dreampt you was blowin' it up, and I sprung 
to ketch it, when fust I know'd I was on the floor like a 
thousand o' brick. [Rubbing his knees.] Mos' broke m} r 
knee-pans. [Whimpering.] Say, didn't ye bring me 
home nothing? What's them things? 

Mr. D. — Nothing little boj'S know any thing about. 
Now run back to bed agin. I forgot to buy you a drum 
to-day, but I'll get you somethin' next time I go to town, 
if I think on't. 

Tad. — So you always say, but you never think on't. 
[A knock at the door.] 

Mrs. D. — There! There! Somebody's comin' ! What 
a looking object you are to be seen by visitors. Run. 
[Exit Taddy.] 

[Mr. D. turns anxiously to his wife, who is hiding the 
bonds in her palpitating bosom.] 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 19 

Mr. D. — Who can it be this time o' night ? 

Mrs. D. — Sakes alive! I wish, whoever it is, thej-'d 
keep away. [Resuming her seat and patching.] Go to 
the door, why don't you? 

Mr. D. [opening the door and looking out.] —Ah ! Miss 
Beswick, walk in ! 

[Enter Miss Beswick, with shawl over her head for a 
bonnet.'] 

Mrs. D. [in surprise.] — What ? that you ? Where on 
airth did ye come from ? Get her a chair, why don't ye, 
father? 

[Mr. D., slipping his feet into a pair of old slippers, 
hastens to comply.] 

Mr. D. [apologetically.] — I've only jest got home. Jest 
had time to kick my boots off, ye see. Take a seat. 

Miss B. — Thank ye. I 'spose ye'll think I'm wild — 
making calls at this hour. [Sits down and drops her 
shawl.] 

Mrs. D. — Why, no, I don't. Ye'r just in time to set 
up and take a cup of tea with my husband. Ye better, 
Miss Beswick, if only to keep him company. Take off 
yer things, won't ye ? 

Miss B. — No, I don't go a visitin' to take off m} r things 
and drink tea this time of night. I've just run over to 
tell you the news. 

Mrs. D. [laying her hand on her bosom.] — Nothin' bad, 
I hope ? No robbers in the town ? For massy sake . 

Miss B. — No ; good news — good for Sophronj', at any 
rate. 

Mrs. D. — Ah! she has heard from Reuben. 

Miss B. — No ! no! 

Mrs. D.— What then ? 

Miss B. — Reuben has come home. 

Mr. and Mrs. B. — Come home ? home ? 

Miss B— Yes ! 

Mrs. D. — My! how you talk! I never dreamed of 
such a when did he come ? 

Miss B. — About an hour'n a half ago. I happened to 
be in Sophronj'-'s. I had jest gone over to set a little 
while and keep her company — as I've often done. She 
seemed so lonely livin' there with her two children, alone 
in the house, with her husband away. Her friends hain't 



1 

1 



20 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

been none too attentive to her in his absence ; so she 
thinks, and so I think. 

Mrs. D. — I hope you don't mean that as a hint to us, 
Miss Beswick. 

Miss B. — You can take it as such, or not, jest as you 
please. I leave it to your own consciences. You know 
best, whether you have done your duty to Sophron}' and 
her family, whilst her husband has been off to the war, 
and I shan't set myself up for a judge. You never had 
any boys of your own, and so }^ou adopted Reuben, just 
as you have lately adoptee! Thaddeus, and I suppose you 
think you've done well by him, just as you think you 
will do by Thaddeus, if he's a good boy and stays with 
you till he's twenty-one. 

Mr. D. — I hope no one thinks or says to the contiary, 
Miss Beswick. 

Miss B. [with slight toss of head.] — There may be two 
opinions on that subject. Reuben came to you when he 
was just old enough to be of use to }^ou about the house 
and on the farm, and if I recollect right, you didn't en- 
courage idleness in him long. You didn't give his hands 
much chance to do " some mischief still." No, indeed ! 
Nobody can accuse you of that weakness. [Her features 
tighten with a terrible grin.'] 

Mrs. D. [excitedly.] — Nobody can say we ever over- 
worked the boy or ill-used him in any way. 

Miss B. — No, i" don't say it. But this I'll say, for 
I've had it on my mind ever since Sophrony was left 
alone — I couldn't help seein' and feelin', and now you've 
set me a talkin', I may as well speak out. Reuben was 
always a good boy, and a willin' boy, as you yourself, 
Mr. Ducklow, must allow, and he paid his way from the 
first. 

Mr. D. [taking up his knife and fork and dropping 
them in agitation.'] — I don't know about that. He was 
a good and willin' boy, as you say, but the expense of 
clothin' him and keeping him to school 

Miss B. [slowly.] He paid his way from the first. 
You kept him to school winters, when he did more work 
'fore and after school than any other boy in town. He 
worked all the time summers, and soon he was as good 
as a hired man to you. He never went to school a day 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 21 

after he was fifteen, and from that time he was better 
than any hired man, for he was faithful, and took an in« 
terest, and looked after, and took care of things as no 
hired man ever would or could do, as I've heard you 
yourself say, Mr. Ducklow. 

Mr. D. — Reuben was a good, faithful boy. I never 
denied that ! I never denied that ! 

Miss B. — Well, he stayed with you till he was twenty- 
one — did ye a man's service for the last five or six years ; 
then you give him what you called a settin'-out — a new 
suit of clothes, a yoke of oxen, some farmin' tools, and 
a hundred dollars in money. You with your thousands, 
Mr. Ducklow, give him a hundred dollars in money. 

Mr. D. — That was only a beginning only a beginnin', 
I have alwaj-s said. 

Miss B. — I know it ; and I s'pose you'll continue to 
say so till the day of yer death. Then, maybe, you'll 
remember Reuben in yer will. That's the way ! Keep 
puttin' him off, as long as you can possibly hold on to 
your property yourself, then when ye see you've got to 
go and leave it, you give him what you ought to have 
given him years afore. There ain't no merit in that kind 
of justice, did ye know it, Mr. Ducklow. I tell you what 
belongs to Reuben, belongs to him now;— not ten or 
twenty years hence, when you've done with it, and he 
most likely won't need it. A few hundred dollars now '11 
be more useful to him, than all your thousands will be 
by-and-by. 

After he left you, he took the Mosety farm ; everybody 
trusted him, everybodj'' respected him, he was doin' well 
everj^body said. Then he married Sophrony, and a good 
and faithful wife she's been to him ; and finally he con- 
cluded to buy the farm, which you yourself said was a 
good idee, and encouraged him in it. 

Mr. D. — So it was. Reuben used judgment in that, 
and he'd a got along well enough if it hadn't been for the 
war 

Miss B. — Jest so ! if it hadn't been for the war. He had 
made his first payments, and would have met the rest, 
as they came due, no doubt of it. But the war broke 
out and he left all to sarve his country. Says he, " I'm 
an able-bodied man, and I ought to go " sa y S ne# jjjg 



22 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

business was as important, and his wife and children 
were as dear to him as anybody's, but he felt it his duty 
to go, and he went. They didn't give no such big boun- 
ties to volunteers then, as they do now, and it was a sac- 
rifice to him every way, when he enlisted. But says he, 
" I'll jist do my duty," says he, " and trust to Providence 
for the rest." You didn't discourage his goin', and you 
didn't encourage him neither, the way you'd ought to. 

Mr. D. [pouring his tea into his plate, and buttering 
his bread with a teaspoon.'] — My ! what on airth, Miss 
Beswick ! Seems to me you've taken it upon yourself to 
say things that are uncalled for, to say the least. I can't 
understand what should have sent you here to tell rne 
what's my business and what ain't in this fashion, as if I 
didn't know my own duty and intentions. 

Mrs. D. [sewing nervously.'] — I s'pose she's been talk- 
ing with Sophrony, and she has sent her here to inter- 
fere. 

Miss B. [with a withering look of scorn] — Mrs. Duck- 
low, you don't s'pose no such thing. You know Sophrony 
wouldn't send anybody on such an arrant, and you know 
I ain't a person to do such arrants, or be made a cat's- 
paw of by anybody. I ain't hansum, not partic'larly, 
and I ain't worth my thousands, like some folks I know, 
and I never got married for the best reason in the world 
— them that offered themselves I wouldn't have, and them 
I would've had didn't offer themselves — and I ain't so 
good a Christian as I might be I'm aware. I know my 
lacks, as well as anybody, but bein' a spy and a cat's- 
paw ain't one of them. I don't do things sly or under- 
hand. If I've any thing to say to anybody, I go right 
to 'era, and say it to their faces, sometimes perty blunt, 
I allow ; but I don't wait to be sent by other folks. I've 
a mind of my own, and my own way of doin' things, 
that you know as well as anybody. So when 3'ou say 
you s'pose Sophrony, or anj^body else, sent me here to 
interfere, I say you s'pose what ain't true, and what you 
know ain't true, Mrs. Ducklow. As for} r ou, Mr. Ducklow, 
I haven't said you don't know your own duties and in- 
tentions. I have no doubt you think you do at any 
rate. 

Mr. D. Very well, then, why can't you leave me to do 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 23 

what I think's my duty — everybody ought to have that 
privilege. 

Miss B. — You think so ? 

Mr. D. — Sartain ! Miss Beswick, don't you ? 

Miss B. — Why, then, I ought to have the same. 

Mr. D. — Of course nobody in this house '11 prevent you 
from doin' what you're satisfied is your duty. 

Miss B.— Thank ye, much obleeged I That's all I ask. 
Now I'm satisfied it's my duty to tell ye what I've been 
tellin' ye, and what I'm goin' to tell ye. That's my duty, 
and then it'll be your duty to do what you think's right. 
That's plain, ain't it ? 

Mr. D. — Wal ! wal ! I can't hender yer talkin', I 
s'pose, though it seems, a man ought to have a right to 
peace and quiet in his own house. 

Miss B. — Yes ! and in his own conscience, too ! And 
if you'll hearken me now, I'll promise you'll have peace and 
quiet in your conscience, and in your house too, sich as 
you never had yit. I s'pose you know your great fault, 
don't ye ? GraspirV — that's yer fault — that's yer besettin' 
sin, Mr. Ducklow. You used to give it as an excuse for 
not helpin' Reuben more, that you had your daughter to 
provide for. Well — your daughter has got married ; she 
married a rich man — you looked out for that — and she's 
provided for, fur as property can provide for any one. 
Now, without a child in the world to feel anxious about, 
you keep layin' up, and layin' up, and '11 continue to laj' 
up, I s'pose, till ye die, and leave a great fortin' to your 
daughter, that already has enough, and just a pittance 
to Reuben and Thaddeus. 

Mr. D. [excitedly .] — No, no ! Miss Beswick! You're 
wrong, Miss Beswick ! I mean to do the handsum thing 
by both on 'em ! 

Miss B. [smiting her lap with her hands."] — Mean to ! 
Ye mean to! That's the way ye flatter } r er conscience 
and cheat yer own soul. Why don't you do what you 
mean to at once, and make sure on 't ? That's the way to 
git the good of your property ! I tell ye the time's 
coram', when the recollection of havin' done a good action 
will be a greater comfort to ye than all the property in 
the world ! Then you'll look back and say : " Why didn't 
1 do this, and do that, with my money, when 'twas in my 



24 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

power, 'stead of hoardin' up, and hoardin' up, for others to 
spend after me?" Now, as I was goin' to say, you 
didn't discourage Reuben's enlistin', and ye didn't in- 
courage him the way ye might. You ought to have said 
to him : " Go, Reuben, if ye see it to be yer duty, and, as 
far as money goes, ye sha'n't suffer for it ; I've got enough 
for all on us, and I'll pay your debts if need be, and see 
't yer fam'ly's kep comf 'table while yer away. " But that's 
jest what ye didn't say, and that's jest what ye didn't do. 
All the time Reuben's been saving his country, he's had 
his debts and family expenses to worry him ; and you 
know it's been all Sophrony could do, by puttin' forth 
all her energies and strainin' every narve, to keep herself 
and children from going hungry and ragged. You've 
helped 'em a little, now and then, in driblets, it's true ; 
but — dear me ! 

[Mrs. D., biting her lips with anger, sews the pants to 
her apron. Silence broken by Mr. D. picking up his knife 
and fork and letting them drop again.~\ 

Mr. D. — Wal ! wal ! you've read us a perty smart lec- 
tur', Miss Beswick, I must sa}'. I can't consaive what 
should make ye take such an interest in our affairs ; but 
it's very kind, very kind in ye, to be sure ! 

Miss B Take an interest ! Haven't I seen Sophrony's 

struggles with them children ! and haven't I seen Reuben 
come home, this very night, a sick man, with a broken 
constitution, and no prospect before him but to give up 
his farm, lose all he has paid, and be thrown upon the cold 
charities of the world with his wife and children ? And 
if the charities of his friends are so cold, what can he 
expect of the charities of the world ? Take an interest ! 
I wish you took half as much ! Here I've sot half an 
hour, and you haven't thought to ask how Reuben looked, 
or any thing about him ! 

Mr. D. — Maybe there's a good reason for that, Miss 
Beswick. 'Twas on my lips to ask a half-a-dozen times ; 
but you talked so fast, ye wouldn't give me a chance to 
git a word in edgeways. 

Miss B. — Well, I'm glad you've got some excuse, though 
a very poor one. 

Mrs. D. [meekly. ~] — How is Reuben ? 

Miss B. — All broken to pieces — a mere shadow of what 

12 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 25 

he was. He's had his old wound troublm' him agin. 
Then he's had the fever ; that came within one of taking 
him out of the world. He was in the hospital, ye know, 
for two months or more ; but finally the doctors seed his 
only chance was to be sent home, weak as he was. Oh, 
if you could have seen him and Sophrony meetin' as I 
did, then you wouldn't sneer at my takin' an interest 
\_puts her handkerchief to her eyes']. I didn't stop — only 
to put him to bed, and to fix things a little ; then I left 'em 
alone, and ran over to tell ye. It's a pity you didn't 
know he was in town when you was there to-day, so as 
to bring him home with ye ; but I s'pose ye had yer in- 
vestments to look after. Come, Mr. Ducklow — how many 
thousand dollars have you invested since Reuben's been 
off to the war, and his folks have been sufferin'^to home ? 
You may have been layin' up hundreds, or even thousands 
that way this very day, for aught I know; but let me teli 
ye, 3^e won't git no good of sich property. It '11 only be 
a cuss to ye, till ye do the right thing by Reuben — mark 
my word ! [Long silence — Miss B. rises to go.] 

Mrs.D. — Ye ain't goin', be ye, Miss Beswick ? What's 
yer hurry ? 

Miss D. [pulling her shawl over her head.] — No hurry 
at all ; but I've done my arrant and said my sa}', and 
may as well be goin'. Good-night. Good-night, Mr. 
Ducklow. 

[Exit Miss Beswick.] 

Mrs. D. — Did you ever ? 

Mr. D.— • She's got a tongue. 

Mrs. D. — Strange she should speak of your investin' 
money to-day. D'ye 'spose she knows? 

Mr. D. [rising from the table and pacing the floor in 
trouble.] — I don't see how she can know. I've been 
careful not to give a hint on't to anybody ; for I knew 
jest what folks would say:. "If Ducklow's got so much 
money to dispose of, he'd better give Reuben a little." 
I know how folks talk. 

Mrs. D. {indignantly.] — Coming here to browbeat usl 
I wonder ye didn't be a little more plain with her, father. 
I wouldn't have sot and been dictated to as tamely as 
you did. 

Mr. D.— You wouldn't ? Then why did ye ? She 



26 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

dictated to you as much as she did to me; and you 
scarce opened yer mouth. Yer didn't dare to say yer 
soul was yer own. 

Mrs. D.— Yes, I did ! I 

Mr. D. — You ventured to speak once, and she shet 
3'ou up qnicker'n light'nin'. Now tell about yer wouldn't 
have sot and been dictated to like a tame noodle, as I 
did! 

Mrs. D. — I didn't say a tame noodle. 

Mr. D. — Yes, ye did ! I might have answered back 
sharp enough, but I was expectin' you to speak. Meu 
don't like to dispute with women. 

Mrs. D. \yexed.~] — That's your git off. You was jest 
as much afraid of her as I was. I never seed ye so 
cowed in all my life. 

Mr. D. [scowling, and taking his boots from the corner."] 
— Cowed 1 I wasn't cowed, neither. How onreasonable 
now for ye to cast all the blame onto me 

Mrs. D. — Ye han't got to go out, have ye ? I shouldn't 
think ye'd put on yer boots just to step to the barn, and 
see to the hoss. 

Mr. D. — I'm going over to Reuben's. 

Mrs. D. — To Reuben's ! Not to-night, father. 

Mr. D.— Yes, I think I'd better. He and Sophrony '11 
know that we heard of his gettin' home, and they're 
enough inclined already to feel we neglect 'em. Haven't 
ye got somethin' ye can send 'em ? 

Mrs. D. [curtly.] — I don't know. I've scarce ever 
been over to Sopkrony's but I've carried her a pie, or 
cake, or somethin', and mighty little thanks I've got far 
it, as it turns out. 

Mr. D. — Why didn't ye say that to Miss Beswick when 
she was runnin' us so hard about our never doin' any 
thing for 'em ? 

Mrs. D. — It wouldn't have done no good. I knew jest 
what she'd say. " What's a pie or a cake now and then ':" 
That's jest the reply she'd have made, [ffises and finds 
the garment fast to her apron.] Dear me! what have 1 
been doin'? So much for Miss Beswick. [Unties her 
apron and throws the united garments on the floor.] I do 
wish such folks would mind their own business ami staj? 
to homo. 






POPULAR DIALOGUES 27 

Mr. D. [putting on his coat] — You've got the bonds 
safe? 

Mrs. D. — Yes ; but I won't engage to keep 'em safe. 
They make me as narvous as can be. I'm afeard to be 
left alone in the house with 'em. Here, you take 'em. 

Mr. D. — Don't be foolish ! What harm can happen to 
them or you while •I'm away ? You don't s'pose I want 
to lug 'em around with me wherever I go, do you ? 

Mrs. D. — I'm sure it's no great lug. I s'pose you're 
afear'd to go across the fields with 'em in your pocket. 
What in the world we're goin' to do with them I don't 
see. If we go out we can't take 'em with us for fear of 
losin' 'em or bein' robbed, and we sha'n't dare to leave 
'em to home for fear the house '11 burn up or git broke 
into. 

Mr. D. — We can hide 'em where no burglars can find 
'em. 

Mrs. D. — Yes, and where nobody else can find 'em 
neither, provided the house burns down, and neighbors 
come in to save things. I don't know but it '11 be about 
as Miss Beswick said : we sha'n't take no comfort in prop- 
erty we ought to make over to Reuben. 

Mr. D. — Do you think it ought to be made over to 
Reuben ? If ye do it's new to me. 

Mrs. D. — No, I don't. I guess we'd better put 'em in 
the clock-case for to-night, hadn't we ? 

Mr. D. — Jest where they'd be discovered if the house 
was robbed. No, I've an idee. Slip 'em under the sittin'- 
room carpet. Let me take 'em. [Puts the bonds under 
the carpet, and sets a chair over them.] 

[Thaddeus at the door. ] 

Mrs. D. — What noise is that? 

Mr. D. [springing to the door.~] — Thaddeus, is that you ? 
What do you want now ? 

Tad. — I want you to scratch my back. 

Mrs. D. [seizes her rattan and strikes him on the back.'] 
— I'll scratch yer back for yer. There, sir; that's a 
scratchin' that '11 last ye for one while. [Exit Duchlow.] 
Away to bed, and don't show yer mug agin to night ! 
[ Taddy obeys, crying, and sobs himself to sleep.] 

Mrs. D. [going to the door.] —Father ! you know what 
time it is ? It's nine o'clock. I wouldn't think of going 



28 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

over there to-night. They'll be all locked up, and a-bed 
and like enough, asleep. 

Mr. D. [entering.] — Wal, I suppose I must do as ye say. 

Mrs. D. [lighting a candle and preparing for bed.] — 
Father, hadn't ye better put a few tacks in the carpet 
where ye put the bonds ? If robbers should break in, 
they'd be sure to knock over the chair and turn up the 
carpet. 

Mr. D. — Don't see much use, but I can do it. [Gets 
hammer and tacks."] Keep the light away ; a spark might 
do the mischief. 

Mrs. D. [retires with the candle.] — Father, don't ye 
smell somethin' burnin' ? 

Mr. D. — No ; I can't say I do. Do you ? 

Mrs. D.— Jest as plain as ever I smelt any thing in my 
life. [Snuff, snuff.] 

Mr. D. [snuffing.] — Seems to me I do smell something. 
It can't be them matches, can it ? 

Mrs. D. — I thought of the matches, but I certainly 
covered 'em up tight. 

[Mr. and Mrs. D. snuff, first one and then the other.] 

Mr. D. — Oh, it was nothing but your imagination. 
Let me see if I can get this tacked. Good gracious ! 

Mrs. D. — What now? They're not gone, are they? 
You don't say they're gone ? 

Mr. D. — Sure as the world — No, here they be — I didn't 
feel in the right place. 

Mrs. D. — How you did frighten me ! My heart almost 
hopped into my mouth. Come now, let's get to bed 
some time. Done ? 

Mr. D. — Yes. 

[Exit scene.] 

Scene II. — Ducklow's house in the morning — Air. and 
Mrs. Ducklow just rising fro?n their frugal breakfast — 
Taddy sitting on the floor, putting on his shoes. 

Mr. D. — Now, mother, I'll run over and see Reuben. 
Mrs. D. — Why not harness up and let me ride over 
with ye ? 

Mr. D. — Very well ; maybe that'll be the best way. 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 29 

Come, Taddy [looking round"], get those shoes on — fly 
round — ^you'll have lots o' chores to do this morning. 

Taddy [provoked]. — What's the matter with my 
breeches ? Some plaguy thing's stuck to them. [Buns 
round and round.] 

Mr. D [laughing heartily.] — Wal, wal, mother ! you've 
done it. You're dressed for meetiu' now, Taddy. 

Mrs. D. — I do declare, I can't for the life of me see what 
there is so funny about it. [ Takes the scissors and cuts the 
apron loose. Mr. and Mrs. D. prepare to go.] 

Mrs. D. — Taddy, Taddy, now mind, don't you leave 
the house, and don't you touch the matches, nor the fire, 
nor don't go ransacking the rooms, neither; ye won't, 
will ye ? 

Taddy. — No, ma'am. 

[Exit Ducklows.] 

Taddy [watches till they are gone, slily gets the hammer, 
pulls Old the tacks, turns up the carpet, and takes out the 
bo7ids. He examines them with curiosity. Soliloquizes.] 
— Whew 1 won't they make me a nice kite ? They're 
nothing but paper anyhow. [Folds up a newspaper and 
puts it in the envelope under the carpet.] 
[Exit scene.] 



Scene III. — At Reuben's house — Reuben lying on a couch, 
propped up with pillows — Sophrony sitting by him, with 
little Ruby on her knee — Miss Beswick moving about the 
room — Neighbors 'Jepworth and Ferring talking to Reuben 
— Enter Mr. and Mrs. Ducklow. 

Mr. D. — Wal, Reuben, glad to see ye ! This is a joy- 
ful day I scarce ever expected to see. Why, you don't 
look so sick as I thought you would — does he, mother ? 

Mrs. D. — Dear me ! I'd no idea he could be so very, so 
very pale and thin — had you, Sophrony 1 

Sophrony. — I don't know what I thought. I only 
know I have him now. He has come home. He shall 
never leave me again — never ! 

Mrs. D. [in a whisper.] — Wasn't it terrible to see him 
brought home so ? 



30 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

Sophro. — Yes, it was ; but, oh, I was so thankful, 1 
felt the worst was over, and I had him again. I can 
nurse him now. He is no longer hundreds of miles 
away, among strangers, where I cannot go to him, 
though I should have gone long ago, as you know, if I 
could have raised the means, and if it hadn't been for 
the children. 

Mrs. D. — I — I — Mr. Ducklow would have tried to help 
you to the means, and I would have taken the children, 
if we had thought it best for you to go. But ye see it 
wasn't best, don't ye ? 

Sophro. — Whether it was or not, I don't complain. I 
am too happy to-day to complain of any thing, to see him 
home again ; but I have dreamt so often that he came 
home, and woke up to find that it was only a dream, I 
am half afraid now to be as happy as I might be. 

Reuben [in a weak voice']. — Be as happy as you please, 
Sophrony ; I'm just where I want to be, of all places in 
this world or the next world either, I may say, for I can't 
conceive of any greater heaven than I'm in now. I'm 
going to get well too, spite of the doctors. Coming home 
is the best medicine for a fellow in my condition. Not 
bad to take either. Stand here, Ruby, my bo}^, and let 
your daddy look at 3^ou again ! To think that's my 
Ruby, Pa Ducklow. Why he was a mere baby when I 
went away. 

Sophro. [leaning over Reuben.'] — Reuben ! Reuben ! 
you're talking too much ! You promised me you wouldn't, 
you know. 

Reuben. — Well, well, I won't. But when a fellow's 
heart is chock full it's hard to shut down on it sometimes. 
Don't look so, friends, as if you pitied me : I ain't to be 
pitied. I'll bet there isn't one of ye half as happy as I 
am at this minute. 

Sophro. [Miss Besiuick approaching .] — Here's Miss 
Beswick, Mother Ducklow : haven't you noticed her ? 

Mrs. D. [surprised.] — How do you do, Miss Beswick? 

Miss B. — Tryin' to keep out of the way and make myself 
useful. [Exit Miss Beswick.] 

Sophro. — I don't know what I should do without her. 
She took right hold and helped me last night. Then 
she came in, the first thing this morning. " Go to yout 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 31 

husband," says she to me ; " don't leave him a minute ; I 
know he don't want ye out of his sight, and you don't 
want to be out of his sight either. So you tend right to 
him, and I'll do the work. There '11 be enough folks 
comin' in to bender, but I've come in to help," s&ys she. 
And here she's been ever since, hard at work, for when 
Miss Beswick says a thing there's no use opposing her, 
that 3^011 know, Mother Ducklow. 

Mrs. D. [with a peculiar pucker."] — Yes, she likes to 
have her own way. 

Sophro. — It seems she called at the door last night, to 
tell you Reuben had come. 

Mrs. D. — Called at the door ! Didn't she tell you she 
came in and made us a visit ? 

Sophro. — No, indeed ! Did she ? 

Mrs. D.— Oh, yes; a visit for her. She ain't no hand 
to make long stops, you know. 

Sophro. — Only when she's needed ; then she never 
thinks of going, as long as she sees any thing to do. 
[Turning towards Reuben, who is conversing with Jep- 
worth.'] Reuben, you mustn't talk, Reuben. 

Jepworth. — I was saying it will be too bad now, if }^ou 
have to give up this place, but he 

Sophro. [interrupting.'] — We are not going to worry 
about that after we have been favored by Providence so 
far, and in such extraordinary ways. We think we can 
afford to trust still further. We have all we can think of 
and attend to to-day, and the future will take care of 
itself. 

Mr. D. — That's right, that's the way to talk. Provi- 
dence will take care of ye, ye may be sure. 

Ferring. — I should think you might git Ditson to renew 
the mortgage. He can't be hard on you under such cir- 
cumstances, and he can't be so foolish as to want the 
money. There's no security like real estate. If I had 
money to invest I wouldn't put it into any thing else. 

Mr. D. — Nor I. Nothing like real estate. 

Jep. — What do ) t ou think of gov'ment bonds ? 

Mr. D. — I don't know. I haven't given much atten- 
tion to the subject. It may be a patriotic duty to lend 
to gov'ment if one has the funds to spare 

Jep. — When we consider that every dollar we lend to 



32 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

gov'ment, goes to carry on the war and put down this 
cursed rebellion. 

Mr. D. — I believe if I had any funds to spare I 
shouldn't hesitate a minute, but go right off and invest 
in gov'ment bonds. 

Ferring. — That might be well enough, if ye did it 
from a sense of duty, but as an investment 'twould be 
the wust ye could make. 

Mr. D. [quickly. ] — Ye think so? 

Ferring. — Certainly, gov'ment will repudiate. It'll 
have to. This enormous debt never can be paid. Your 
interest in gold is a temptation just now, but that won't 
be paid much longer, and then your bonds won't be 
worth any more than so much brown paper. 

Mr. D. [alarmed.'] — I— I don't think so. I don't b'lieve 
I should be frightened, even if I had gov'ment securities 
in my hands. I wish I had. I really wish I had a good 
lot of them bonds. Don't you, Jepworth ? 

Jep. — They're mighty resky things to have in the 
house. That's one objection to 'em. 

Ferring. — That's so ! I read in the papers almost 
every day 'bout somebody having his coupon bonds stole. 

Jep. — I should be more afraid of fires. 

Reuben. — But there's this to be considered in case of 
fires. If the bonds burn up, they won't have to be paid, 
so what's your loss is the country's gain. 

Mr. D. — But isn't there any remedy ? 

Reuben. — There's no risk at all, if a man subscribes 
for registered bonds. They're like railroad stock. But if 
you have the coupons you must look out for them. 

Mr. D. [rises hurriedly.'] — Wal, Reuben, I must be 
drivin' home I s'pose. Left every thing at loose ends. I 
was in such a hurry to see ye, and find out if there's 
any thing I can do for you. 

Reuben. — As for that I've got a trunk over in town 
which couldn't be brought last night. If you will haw 
that sent for, I'll be obliged to you. 

Mr. D. — Sartin, sartin. 

[Exit Mr. Z>.] 

Ferring. — One would think that Pucldow had some 
of them bonds on his hands, and got scared — lie tooh 
such a sudden start. He lias, hasn't he, Mrs. Duckluw '{ 

14 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 33 

Mrs. D. [engrossed with her knitting.'] — Has what ? 

Ferring. — Some of them coupon bonds. I rather 
think he's got some. 

Mrs. D. — You mean government bonds? Ducklow 
got some ! 'Taint at all likely he'd spec'late in 'em with- 
out saying something to me about it. No I he couldn't 
have any without my knowing it, I'm sure. 
{Exit Scene. .] 

Scene IV. — Taddy in sitting-room playing marbles. Mr. 
Ducklow on the road — Alarm of fire without. 

Mr. D. [heard shouting']. — Git up ! git up ! fire ! fire ! 
them bonds ! them bonds ! Why didn't I give the money 
to Reuben ! Fire ! fire ! fire ! Why don't ye go long ! 
[Slap, slap. Mis hat falls off.] Whoa ! whoa ! whoa 

[Fire I fire I fire ! by many voices in the distance. A 
false alarm ! a false alarm I] 

[One fellow says, " Seems to me ye ought to have found 
that out 'fore you raised all creation with yer yells."] 

[Another hallooing, " Ye look like the flying Dutchman. 
This your hat ? I thought it was a dead cat in the road. "] 

Atkins — No fire ! no fire ! only one of Ducklow's jokes. 

[Boys still shout " Fire 1" Thaddeus puts on his hat 
to go out, but meets his Pa Ducklow.] 

Mr. D. — Thaddeus ! Thaddeus ! Where are you going, 
Thaddeus ? 

Tad.— Goin' to the fire ! 

Mr. D. — There isn't any fire, boy ! 

Tad. — Yes, there is ! Didn't ye hear 'em ? They've 
been yelling like fury ! 

Mr. D. — It's nothing but Atkins' brush. 

Tad. — That's all! I thought there was goin' to be 
some fun ! I wonder who was such a fool as to yell fire 
jest for a darned old brush-heap. 

Mr. D. — I've got to drive over to town and get 
Reuben's trunk. You stand by the mare while I step 
in and brush my hat. [Hastens to look after bonds.] 
Heavens and airth ! 

[Ducklow gropes under the carpet and finds his package, 
discovers Taddy looking in at the door.] 

Mr. D.— Didn't I tell you to stand by the old mare? 



34 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

Tad. [shrinking back.] — She won't stir ! 

Mr. D. — Come here! [Grasps him by the collar. ] 
What have you been doing ? Look at that ! 

Tad. [whimpering and putting his fists in his eyes."] — 
'Twarn't me ! 

Mr. D. [shaking him.] — Don't tell me " 'twarn't you " ! 
What was you pullin' up the carpet for ? 

Tad. [snivelling.] — Lost a marble. 

Mr. D. — Lost a marble ! Ye didn't lose it under the 
carpet, did ye ? Look at all that straw pulled out ! 
[Shakes him again.] 

Tad. — Didn't know but what it might a got under the 
carpet — marbles roll so ! 

Mr. D. — Wal, sir! [Boxes him on the ears.] Don't 
you do such a thing again if you lose a million marbles. 

Tad. — Hain't got a million ! [ Weeping.] Hain't got 
but four 1 Won't you huj me some to-day ? 

Mr. D. — Go to that mare and don't leave her again till 
I come, or I'll marble ye in a way y e won't like. [In deep 
trouble, pacing the floor.] Why ain't she to home ! These 
women are forever a-gaddin'. I wish Reuben's trunk 
was in — Jericho. Where shall I put 'em ! A — h ! now I 
know ; I'll slip 'em down in that trunk of worthless old 
rubbis^i where no one would ever think of look in' for 
'em, and resk 'em. 

[Exit Scene. 

Scene V. — Ducklow's sitting-room. Taddy sitting on the 
floor, making his kite. 

[Enter Mr. Ducklow.] 

Mr. D. — Did that pedler stop here ? 

Tad. — I hain't seen no pedler. 

Mr. D. — And hain't yer Ma Ducklow been home 
neither ? 

Tad. [hiding the kite frames.] — No ! 

Mr. D. — Wal, come here and mind the mare! [Taddy 
obeys. Mr. D. soliloquizes.]— 1 don't see no way but for 
me to take the bonds with me. [Takes the bonds out of 
the old trunk and fastens them in his breast-pocket with 
six large pins.] There, now, they're safe ! 
[doing out, Taddy appears.'] 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 35 

Tad. — There's suthin' losin' out o' yer pocket! [Mr. 
D. puts Ms hand, quick as lightning, to his breast, and 
stumbles.'] Yer side pocket ! It's one of yer mittens. 

Mr. D. — You rascal ! how you skeer'cl me ! [Skins his 
shin and pulls up his pant-leg. ] 

Tad. — Got any thing in yer boot-leg, to-day, Pa 
Ducklow ? 

Mr. D. — Yes, a barked shin, and all on yer account 
too. Go and put that straw back and fix the carpet, and 
don't let me hear ye speak of my boot-leg again, or I'll 
boot-leg ye. 

[Exit Mr. Ducklow."] 

\_Taddy gets his kite and goes out. Enter Mrs. Ducklow 
out of breath.'] 

Mrs. D. — Thaddeus ! Thaddeus ! The house deserted ! 
Carpet torn up ! Straw pulled out, and bonds gone. Mr. 
Ducklow never could have done it o-ettino- the bonds ! 
Somebody must have taken them! [She rushes franti- 
cally from the house calling " Taddy ! Taddy ! Taddy !" 
and, after a few minutes, enters, breathless, pulling Taddy.] 
Look here, boy ! how came the carpet up ? 

Tad. — I pulled it up hunting for a marble. 

Mrs. D. — And the — the — the thing tied up in a brown 
wrapper 

Tad. — Pa Ducklow took it. 

Mrs. D. — Ye sure ? 

Tad. — Yes, I seen him ! 

[Exit Taddy.] 

Mrs D. — Oh, clear ! I never was so beat ! Oh, dear ! 
I'm half dead ! Oh, dear ! 0h ; clear ! 
[Enter Mr. Ducklow.] 

Mrs. D. — Did ye take the bonds ? 

Mr. D. — Of course I did. Ye don't suppose I'd go 
away and leave them in the house, not knowin' when 
you'd be com in' home ! 

Mrs. D. — Wal, I didn't know — I didn't know whether 
to believe Taddy or not. Oh, I've had sich a fright ! Oh, 
dear ! 

Mr. D.— What frightened ye? 

Mrs. D. — Wal, I came home and found the carpet all 
torn up. and bonds gone. Just as I came in I see'd an 
old chaise goin' up the road, and as Taddy was not about 



36 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

I very nateralh' thought the house had been robbed, and 
bonds and Taddy both taken. So I run fast as I could 
through the mud, hollering loud as I could, " Stop thief!" 
" Stop thief!" but he paid no attention. After a while I 
got round the hoss and cried, " Stop, sir, you've robbed 
my house !" I didn't look at all, till I said it, and who 
should it be but Mr. Grantley, the minister ! Oh, dear ! 
Oh, dear! 

Mr. D. —Massy on us ! How could you make such a 
fool of yourself! It'll git all over town, and I shall 
be mortified to death. Jest like a woman, to git fright- 
ened. 

Mrs. D. — If you hadn't got frightened at Atkins' brush- 
heap, and made a fool of yourself yelling fire, 'twouldn't 
have happened. 

Mr. D. — Wal ! Wal ! Say no more about it. The 
bonds is safe ! 

Mrs. D.— Where? 

Mr. D. — I went to the bank, and asked 'em if they'd 
lock 'em up in their safe, and they said they would, but 
wouldn't give no receipt for 'em, or hold 'em selves re- 
sponsible for 'em. I didn't know what else to do, so I 
handed 'em the bonds to keep. 

Mrs. D. — I want to know if you did now ? 

Mr. D. [unfolding his weekly paper.] — Why not? 
What else could I do ? I can't lug 'em about with me, 
and as for keepin' 'em in the house we've tried that. 
[He reads.] 

Mrs. D. — I wouldn't have left the bonds in the bank ! 
My judgment would have been better than that. If the}' 
are lost I shan't be to blame. [Mr. Ducklow starts with 
surprise."] Why, what have 3 r e found ? 

Mr. D. [turning pale.] — Bank robbery! 

Mrs. D. — Not yer bank? Not the bank where yer 
bonds are ? 

Mr. D. — Of course not ! but in the very next town. 
The safe blown open with gunpowder. Five thousand 
gov'ment bonds stole. 

Mrs. D. — How strange ! Now what did I tell ye? 

Mr. D. — I believe ye'r right. They'll be safer in my 
own house, or even in my own pocket. 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 37 

Mrs. D. — If you was going to put 'em in any safe, 
why not put 'em in Josiah's ? He's got a safe, ye know. 

Mr. D.— So he has! We might drive over there and 
make a visit Monday, and ask him to lock 'em up Yes, 
we might tell him and Laury all about it, and leave 'em 
in their charge. 

Mrs. D. — So we might! 

Mr. D. [pacing the floor."] — Let me see ! To-morrow's 
Sunday. If we leave the bonds in the bank over night 
they must sta}^ there till Monday. 

Mrs. D. — And Sunday is jest the da} T for burglars. 

Mr. D. — I've a good notion — let me see — [looking at the 
clock'] — twenty minutes after twelve — bank closes at two 
— an hour and a-half — I believe I could make it — I'll go 
immediately. 

[Exit Scene.] 

Scene VI. — Josiah's house. Josiah, Laura, Air. and 
Mrs. Ducklow present. 

Mr. D. [turning to Laura.] — Josiah's got a nice placo 
here. That's about as slick a little barn as ever I see'd 
Always does me good to come over here and see you 
gettin' along so nicely, Laury. 

Laura. — I wish you'd come oftener, then. 

Mr. D. — Wal, it's hard leavin' home, ye know. Have 
to git one of Atkins' boys to come and sleep with Taddy 
the night we're away. 

Mrs. D. — We shouldn't have come to day, if it hadn't 
been for me. Says I to your father, sa}-s I, "I feel as if 
I wanted to go over and see Laury ; it seems an age since 
I've seen her," says I. " Wal," sa} r s he, " s'pos'n we go," 
says he. That was only last Saturday, and this morning 
we started. 

Mr. D. — And it's no fool of a job to make the journey 
with the old mare. 

Laura. — Why don't you drive a better horse ? 

Mr. D. — Oh, she answers my purpose. Hoss-flesh is 
high, Laury. Have to economize these times. 

Laura. — I'm sure there's no need of your economizing. 
Why don't you use your money and have the good of it. 

Mrs. D.— So Jteil him. 



38 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

Mr. D. [accidentally."] — What do you think of gov'- 

mcnt bonds, Josiah ? 

Josiah. — First-rate. 

Mr. D. [encouraged.] — About as safe as any thing, 
ain't they ? 

Josiah. — Safe ! Just look at the resources of this 
country. Nobody has begun yet to appreciate the power 
and undeveloped wealth of these United States. It's a 
big rebellion I know, but we're going to put it down. It'll 
leave us a big debt, very sure ; but we'll handle it easily. 
It makes us stagger a little, not because we are not 
strong enough for it, but because we don't understand 
our own strength, or how to use it. It makes me laugh 
to hear folks talk about repudiation and bankruptcy. 

Mr. D. — But s'pos'n we do put clown the rebellion, and 
the States come back, then what's to hender the South 
and secesh sj^mpathizers in the North, from jinin' to- 
gether and voting that the debt sha'n't be paid? 

Josiah. — Don't you worry about that. Do you sup- 
pose we're going to be such fools as to give the rebels, 
after we've whipped 'em, the same political privileges 
they had before the war ? Not by a long chalk ! Sooner 
than that we'll put the ballot into the hands of the freed- 
men. They're.our friends. They've fought on the right 
side. I tell ye, in spite of all the prejudice there is 
against black skins, we a'n't such a nation of ninnies as 
to give up all we're fighting for and leave our best friends 
and allies, not to speak of our own interests, in the hands 
of our enemies. 

Mr. D. [growing radiant.] — You consider gov'ments a 
good investment then, do ye ? 

Josiah. — I do, decidedly, — the very best. Besides 
you help the government, and that's no small con- 
sideration. 

Mr. D. — So I thought. But how is it about the cow- 
pon bonds? A'n't they rather ticklish property to have 
in the house ? 

Josiah. — Well, I don't know. Think how many years 
you'll keep old bills and documents and never dream of 
such a thing as losing them 1 There's not a bit more 
danger with the bonds. I shouldn't want to carry thorn 
around with me to any great amount, though 1 did once 






POPULAR DIALOGUES 39 

carry three thousand dollar bonds in my pocket for a 
week. I didn't mind it. 

Mr. D. — Curious ! I've got three thousand dollar 
bonds in my pocket this minute. 

Josiah. — Well, it's so much good property. 

Mr. D. — Seems to me, though, if I had a safe as you 
have, I'd lock 'em up in it. 

Josiah.— I was travelling that week. I did lock them 
up pretty soon after I got home. 

Mr. D. [as if the thought had just struck him.'] — Sup- 
pose you put my bonds into your safe, I shall feel easier. 

Josiah. — Of course ! I'll keep them for you, if you 
like. 

Mr. D — It will be an accommodation. They'll be safe, 
will they ? 

Josiah. — Safe as mine are. Safe as anybody's. I'll 
insure them for twenty-five cents. 

\_Duckloio is very happy. Mrs. D. goes to her husband, 
and with a pair of scissors cuts the stitching, they having 
been previously stitched in for safety.'] 

Josiah. — Have 3'ou torn off the May coupons ? 

Mr. D— No. 

Josiah. — Well, you'd better. They'll be pa3^able now 
soon, and if you take them you won't have to touch the 
bonds again till the interest on the November coupons is 
due. 

Mr. D. — A good idee ! [ Takes the envelope, unties the 
tape, and removes the contents. The glow of comfort on 
his face changes to consternation. There are no bonds, 
but three Sunday-school Visitors instead.] 

Josiah. — Hallo ! What ye got there ? 

Mrs. D. — Why, father ! Massy sakes ! 

Laura. — What does it mean, father? 

[Mr. Ducklow cannot speak. He opens the envelope 
again, turns it inside out, and shakes it with a trembling 
hand. They are gone. Looks for his hat.] 

Mr. D.— Wall Wal! Mother, hadn't we better go 
right home ? Those rascals must have stolen them at the 
bank. 

Josiah. — There'll be not the least use in going to-night. 
If they were stolen at the bank, you can't do any thing 
about it till to-morrow ; and even if they were taker. 



40 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

from your own house, I don't see what's to be gained now 
by hurrying back. It isn't probable you'll ever see them 
again ; and you may just as well take it easy, go to bed 
and sleep on it, and take a fresh start in the morning. 
The best way will be to advertise. 

[Laura passes out.'] 

Josiah [taking his hat]. — Excuse me ; I'll be back in a 
few minutes. 

[Exit Josiah.'] 

Mr. I). — If we had only given the three thousan' dollars 
to Reuben ! 'Twould have jest set him up, and been some 
compensation for his sufferin's and losses goin' to the 
war. 

Mrs. D. — Wal, I had no objections. I always thought 
he ought to have the money eventooally ; and as Miss 
Beswick said, no doubt it would a' been ten times the 
comfort to him now.it would be a number of } T ears from 
now. But you didn't seem willin'. 

Mr. D. — I don't know ! 'Twas you that wasn't willin'. 
But it's no use talkin' [holding the envelope in his hand, 
and giving it an occasional shake]. I've not the least idee 
we shall ever see the color of them bonds again. If they 
was stole at the bank, I can't prove any thing. 

Mrs. D. — It does seem strange to me that yon should 
have had no more gumption than to trust the bonds with 
strangers, when they told 3 T ou, in so many words, they 
wouldn't be responsible. 

Mr. I). — If you have flung that in nrv teeth once, } t ou 
have clone it fifty times ! 

Mrs. D. — Wal, I don't see how we're going to work to 
find 'em, now they're lost, without making inquiries ; and 
we can't make inquiries, without letting it be known that 
we have bought. 

Mr. I). — I been thinking about that. Oh, dear! [with 
a, groan] I wish the pesky cowpon bonds had never been 
invented ! Very like, somebody got into the house that 
morning, when the little scamp run out, before you got to 
home from Reuben's; and then I don't see any \\;ty left 
but to advertise, as Josiah said. [Sighing.] 

Mus. I). — And that '11 bring it all out! Oh, dear! if 
you only hadn't been so imprudent] 

Mr. D. — Wal! wall [Exit scene.] 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 41 

Scene VII. — Reuben* s house — Reuben^ Sophronia, and 
Ruby, present — Reuben watching Sophronia. Enter Mr. 
and Mrs. Ducklow looking as mournful as the grave. 

Mrs. D. [solemnly.'] — Good-morning-. 

Mr. D. [soberly.] — How are you gettin' along, Reuben? 

Reuben. — I am doing well enough. Don't be at all con- 
cerned about me. It ain't pleasant to lie here, and feel it 
maybe months — months— before I'm able to be about my 
business ! but I wouldn't mind it — I could stand it first- 
rate — I could stand any thing — any thing, but to see her 
working her life out for me and the children ! To no pur- 
pose, either ! That's the worst of it ! We shall have to 
lose this place, spite of fate ! 

Sophro. [hastening to him and laying her hand upon 
his forehead.]— Oh, Reuben ! why won't you stop think- 
ing about that ? Do try to have more faith ! We shall 
be taken care of, I'm sure ! 

Reuben. — If I had three thousand dollars — yes, or even 
two — then I'd have faith ! Miss Beswick has proposed to 
send a subscription-paper around town for us; but I'd 
rather die than have it done ! Besides, nothing near that 
amount could be raised, I'm confident. [Mr. D. utters a 
groan.] You need't groan so, Pa Ducklow; for I ain't 
hinting at you. I don't expect you to help me out of my 
trouble. If you had felt called upon to do it, you'd have 
done it before now ; and I don't ask — 1 don't beg — of any 
man ! [proudly. ~\ 

Mr. D. — That's right ! I like jqv spirit ! But I was 
sighin' to think of something — something you haven't 
known any thing about, Reuben. 

Mrs. D. — Yes, Reuben, we should have helped you, and 
did take steps towards it 

Mr. D. — In fact, you've met with a great misfortin, Reu- 
ben, unbeknown to yourself. You've met with a great 
misfortin ! Yer Ma Ducklow knows. 

Mrs. D. — Yes, Reuben, the very day }<ou came home 
your Pa Ducklow made an investment for yer benefit. 
We didn't mention it, you know — I wouldn't own up to 
it, though I didn't exactly say the contrary, the morning 
we was over here. 

Mr. D. — Because we wanted to surprise you I We was 



42 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

keepin' it a secret till the right time ; then we was goin' 
to make it a pleasant surprise to ye. 

Reuben [in bewilderment, looking from one to the 
other']. — What, in the name of common-sense, are you 
talking about ? 

Mr. D. [groaning.] — Cowpon bonds ! Three thousan' 
dollar cowpon bonds ! [another groan.] The money had 
been lent, but I wanted to make a good investment for 
you, and I thought there was nothing so good as gov'- 
meuts. 

Reuben. — That's all right ! Only, if you had money 
to invest for my benefit, I should have preferred to pay 
off the mortgage the first thing. 

Mr. D. — Sartin ! sartin f and you could have turned the 
bonds right in if you had so chosen, like so much cash, 
or you could have drawee! yer interest on the bonds in 
gold, and paid the interest on your mortgage in currency, 
and made so much ; as I rather thought you would. 

Reuben [eagerly raising on his elbow.] — But the 
bonds ? 

[Enter Hiss B., with shawl over her head.] 

Mrs. D. [ivith anxiety.] — We was just telling about 
our loss — Reuben's loss! 

Miss Beswick [slipping the shawl from her head and 
sitting down]. — Very well, don't let me interrupt you. 
[Listens, in a prim, sarcastic manner.] 

Reuben. — I see — I see. You had kinder intentions 
towards me than I gave you credit for. Forgive me if I 
wronged you. 

Mr. D. — Wal, wal, if we only had them. They were 
all invested for your benefit. 

Reuben. — But don't feel so bad about it. You did 
what } r ou thought best. I can only say the fates arc 
against me. 

Miss B. [stretching up her neck and clearing her throat.] 
— Hem ! hem ! So them bonds 3-011 had bought for 
Reuben was in the house the very night 1 called! 

Mrs. D.— Yes, Miss Beswick ; and that's what made it 
so uncomfortable to us, to have you talk the wa} r you 
did. 

Miss B. [stretching her neck still further and clearing 
her throat.] — Hem I 'Twas too bad. Ye ought to have 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 43 

told me. You'd actually bought the bonds — bought 'em 
for Reuben, had ye ? 

Mr. D. — Sartin! sartin! 

Mrs. D. — To be sure ; we designed 'em for his benefit 
■ — a surprise, when the right time come. 

Miss B. — Hem! well! When the right time come? 
Yes. That right time wasn't somethin' indefinite, in the 
fur futur, of course ? Yer losin' the bonds didn't hurry 
up yer benevolence the least grain, I s'pose? Hem! 
Let in them boys, Sophrony. 

[Sophronia opens the door. Enter Dick Atkins, fol- 
lowed reluctantly by Taddy, ivho begins to whimper.'] 

Mr. and Mrs. D. — Thaddeus! what are you here for? 

Miss B. [arbitrarily.'] — Because I said so ! Step along, 
bo}^s ! step along ! Hold up yer head, Taddj r , for ye 
ain't goin' to be hurt while I'm 'round. Take 3>er fists 
out of yer eyes, and stop blubberin'. Mr. Ducklow, that 
boy knows somethin' about Reuben's coupon bonds! 

Mr. and Mrs. D. [angrily.] — Thaddeus! did you tech 
them bonds ? 

Taddy [whimpering"]. — Didn't know what they was. 

Mrs. D. [grasps Taddy by the shoulder.] — Did you 
take them ? 

Miss B. [sternly.] — Hands off, if you please ! I told 
him if he'd be a good boy, and come along with Richard, 
and tell the truth, he shouldn't be hurt [raising her hand 
with a majestic nod]. If you please ! [Mrs. D. takes her 
hand off of Taddy.] 

Mr. D. — Where are they now ? Where are they ? 

Taddy — Don't know. 

Mr. D. — Don't know? You villian ! [approaches 
Taddy angrily.] 

Miss B. [raising her hand.] — If jow. please ! 
[Mr. D. sinks back.] 

Mrs. D. — What did ye do with 'em ? What did you 
want of 'em? 

Taddy. — To cover my kite. 

Mr. D. — Cover your kite? your kite? Didn't you 
know no better ? 

Taddy. — Didn't think } T ou'd care. I had some news- 
papers Dick gave me to cover it, but I thought them 



44 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

things would be puttier, so I took 'em, and put the news- 
papers in the wrapper. 

Mr. D. — Did 3 r e cover yer kite ? 

Taddy. — No. When I found out } t ou cared so much 
about 'em, I darsent. I was afeard you'd see 'em. 

Mrs. D. — Then what did you do with 'em ? 

Taddy.— When you was away, Dick came over to sleep 
with me, and I — I — sold 'em to him. 

Mr. J).— Sold 'em to Dick 1 

Dick [stoutly']. — Yes ; for six marbles, and one was a 
bull's e} T e, and one an agate, and two alleys. Then when 
3^ou come home, and made such a fuss, he wanted 'em 
agin, but he wouldn't give me back but four, and I wa'rn't 
goin' to agree to no sich nonsense as that. 

Taddy. — I'd lost the bull's eye and one common. 

Mr. D. — But the bonds — did } 7 ou destroj' 'em ? 

Dick. — Likely I'd destro}'' 'em after I'd paid six marbles 
for 'em. I wanted 'em to cover my kite with. 

Mr. D. — Cover your — Oh! T4ien 3'ou've made a kite 
of 'em ? 

Dick. — Well, I was goin' to, when Aunt Beswick 
ketched me at it. She made me tell where I got 'em 
and took me over to your house jest now, and Taddy said 
you was over here, and so she put a-hcad and made us 
follow her. 

Mr. D. [impatiently.] — But where are the bonds? 

Dick. — If Tadd}' '11 give me back the marbles 

Miss B. — That '11 do ! Reuben will give you twenty 
marbles, for I believe you said they was Reuben's bonds, 
Mr. Ducklow. 

Mr. D. — Yes ; that is 

Mrs. D. — Event-oo-ally. 

Miss B. — Noav look here ! what am I to understand — 
be they Reuben's bonds, or be they not ? " That's the 
question." 

Mr. D. [slowly.]— Of course they're Reuben's. 

Mrs. D. — We intended all the while 

Mr. D. — To do jest what he pleases with 'em. 

Miss 13. — Well, now, it's understood. Here, Reuben, 
are 3 r our coupon bonds. [Draw* them from he?' bosom 
and lays them in Reuben's hands.] 

Reubkn [opening them]. — Glory ! Sophrony ! Ruby — 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 45 

you've got a home ! Miss Beswick, you angel from (far, 
skies, go order a bushel and a half of marbles for Dick, 
and have the bill sent to me. Oh, Pa Ducklow, you neve/ 
did a nobler, or more generous thing in your life. These 
will lift the mortgage and leave me a nest-egg besides. 
Then, when I get my back pay and my pension, and my 
health again, we shall be independent. 
[Exit scene.'] 



THE PURITAN'S DILEMMA. 

CHARACTERS. 
Capt. Miles Standish. John Alden. Priscilla. 

Scene I. By the sea-side. 

Miles Standish [walking, soliloquizes']. 
Aye ! Plymouth is fair — no goodlier spot 
Could gladden the heart out of England, 
Standing so like the Angel of Vision — 
Her one foot on sea, the other on land, 
While the hem of her garment touches low 
On the beach and the woodland. 
Dear, dear to the pilgrim is rest— the hope 
That his labors in measure are ended. 
How snug seem those huts our own hands have builded, 
Gleaming like palaces in October's sun ; 
And, to eke out the fancy, yon tower, 
Our fort, lifting up its rude cannon, seems 
Fearful enough in the glorious autumn 
To frighten a host of dusky invaders. 
Ah ! what would betide to the colony 
Should the fury of winter set earty in ? 
T fear that nought would be left — none to tell 
Of the fate of companions, should this year, 
Like the last, shroud our hopes in despair. 
God forbid tliat our foes and the weather — 



46 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

The wild blasts and the savages Avilder — 

Should count on our weakness to conquer — should hope 

To bury beyond resurrection this seed 

His right hand has sifted. Bible and home ! 

These unmolested we longed for. We find 

Them in prospect for children, perhaps, while 

Our hearts must be rent through manifold woes, 

— Oh, Rose of my heart ! Your grave on the hill, 

Now bristling with corn-blades and displaying full ears, 

Seems a Providence speaking directly to me I 

Alden [approaching']. 
Captain Standish! [C 'apt. does not hear."] 

Standish, Captain of Plymouth ! 

Standish [recognizing']. 
Ah, Alden, my friend ! From the Governor now ? 

Alden. 
Yes, with message for you. — Your pardon, I trust, 
For breaking the thought that held you intent ; 
But 'tis clanger foreboding that brings me in haste. 
The Indians, they sa} r , are prowling in sight. 
Your good word as ever, your right arm as well 
We count on for safety. 

Standish. 

I'll with you at once. 

Alden. 
Go to the Governor — other mission is mine. 
When behests are all given and action complete 
We'll meet and converse according to wont — 
Discuss doctrines, books, and talk of the village. 

Standish. 
As you say, my 3-oung friend. I always find strength 
In counsels with you. Good-bye, then. [Exit.'] 

Alden. 

Farewell I [Exit.] 

Scene II. — Room in a house, 

Standish [striding impatiently]. 
This parking with savages never has done — 
Never will do ! So I've settled the matter — 
Accepted their challenge— stand ready for light. 
Snake-skin and arrows after treaties of peace ! 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 47 

Powder and shot pressed down in good measure— 
They'll understand that, I warrant — yes, feel 
Its significance early to-morrow. 

Alden. 
We discuss retribution then, I surmise. 

Standish. 
We'll not stop to discuss it, but deal it — • 
Deal to the death — to the cowardly tribes 
That sneak on our borders to ravage and kill ; 
That promise good faith, but only to lull 
Our wary suspicion, more surely to kill. 
Depravity total what man can doubt 
Who has treated with red men — a doctrine 
We hold by strongly as saints' perseverance ! 
— Hear me, John Alden ! Faith in humanity 
Doesn't mean faith in Indians, I verily think I 

Alden. 
So the army of Plymouth goes out with the dawn ! 

Standish. 
Yes— few, tried men, and staunch — their lives in their 

hands 
And death for those treacherous redskins ! Oh, man, 
A saint might swear at their villanous tricks I 

Alden. 
But, Captain, my friend, may we not here perceive 
How God, in his mercy, bears long with us all ? 
Should his wrath be extended and justice done ■ 

Standish [interrupting']. 
True, true, John — we soldiers forget. You scholars 
And peace men have time to reflect, to order 
Your lives right seemly indeed. We war men, howbeit, 
Grow rough — I fear wicked — and oftentimes need 
Your kind admonitions and breathings of heaven. 
— Oh, how a man pines for the blessing of home ! 
The light of mine quenched, I oft seem to m.yself 
Adrift without compass ; and e'en the Good Book 
Seems less full of comfort than when Rose and I 
Together betimes sought its teaching with prayer. 
You remember her well, and the heavenly grace 
That shone on her brow from her nearness to God — 
You know how her spirit passed hence when he called. 
■ — But, friend, who can know of the void in my heart ? 



48 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

Alden. 
As the Psalmist hath said — "We go unto them, 
" But they cannot come back unto us" — " Truly 
11 A gift from the Lord is a wife good and true. " 

Standish. 
When I tarry in camp or in combat strive, 
" What boots ' me my life," I frequently ask, 
" Since no hearthstone is mine to which to return — 
" No tie here on earth but my duty to do ?" 

Alden. 
Yet that is well done ; and a father to all 
You prove by your valor, since you are our hope 
In such times of distress. 

Standish. 

That all may be true ; 
Yet that is such light as the traveller sees 
In the cot from afar, when out on the moor. 
It warms not, scarce cheers with its bright slanting ray- 
Only gives him a hope such bliss to attain. 

Alden. 
Is friendship no boon ? 

Standish. 

Aye, certainly, Alden — 
Such as ours well may call for gratitude deep ; 
But nought passing love of a woman I've found. 
Since talk has turned thus, I will venture to tax 
Your friendship for once with a thought that has lain 
Smouldering for weeks till this call gives it vent, 
When it bursts into flames, and will not be quenched, 
But free air it craves. You know fair Prisciila: 
Think you she would share a roof with a warrior — 
Give her heart unto me — her hand into mine ? 

Alden. 
None fairer, none worthier, than she could one name 
To stand where Rose stood, as lirst in your heart! 
But ask her, my friend, and put to the proof 
Your skill in heart-weapons — your valor in love. 

Standish. 
Just there, my friend, I falter. I long, but can't speak ; 
And would beg for your service. Ere I go, 
J ask you to tell her how lone is my plight— 
I love her, albeit my manner is rude. 
K2 15 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 49 

I trust to your words and } T our most courtly ways 
To win her approval and her heart for me. 

A LDEN. 

A strange errand this for a } T oung man like me, 
Who ne'er yet addressed a woman himself; 
While you, urged by memoiy, might enter a claim 
No womanly heart could withstand, and secure 
A. prize for 3'ourself worth the winning. Indeed, 
If time fails ere you must buckle on steel, 
Write out your petition — its bearer I'll be. 

Standish. 
No, John, I've no words, though a full heart is mine. 
Break it, I pray, in most elegant phrases, 
In which you're reputed by all to excel. 
You're a friend in m} T need ; and when I return, 
Let me hear from your lips your success, which is mine. 
Yes, early to-morrow I marshal my band — 
God guide us and j^ou, John ! Your hand — and good-bye I 
[Exit.] 

Alden. 
He would not take nay. — My friend and companion, 
How, telling your wishes, you pictured my own ! 
I could not say nay, he so leaned on my friendship — - 
Nor could I reveal my depths of emotion. No — 
The elder, needier by reason of loss — 
My hope must give way, "preferring another," 
As well saith the Scriptures, "unto myself!" 
Why have I been tardy ? How could I suspect 
Another would covet the jewel I saw? 
Why not? Fair as the sun she shines unto all ! 
Why falter ? A friend I can prove, though to love 
Be denied me. B}^ waiting, I'm tempted 
To be false to my friend and nrvself — my suit 
To prefer — his to — I'll straight to Priscilla! 
[Exit.'] 



Scene III. — Room in house — Priscilla at work, 

Prisctlla [tn Alden entering']. 
Good-morrow, John Alden — good-morrow I 



50 popular dialogues 

Alden. 

The same 
I bid you. 

Priscilla. 

Good wishes are well when the place 
Is well nigh deserted — a guard but for women 
And children remains. Indeed, 'tis very gloomy 
The prospect — with war and with winter at hand ! 
You saw, then, our army depart ? 

Alden. 

Yes, saw them, 
And bade them God-speed ! — an arm}' terrible too, 
With banners and weapons and courage to strike 
The foe dumb. 

Priscilla. 

The flower of our Plymouth has gone — 
The pride of the Mayflower. Oh, pity if they 
Should fail ! 

Alden. 

Doubtless we die, if they do. Surely 
You give not up to misgivings like these ! Why 
The Lord's on our side, and Miles Standish — Standish, 
Who knows not defeat in matters of warfare — Standish, 
Whose fame every household in England 
Was proud to repeat ! Quicker work he will make 
With these tribes than with phalanx on phalanx 
Of men for years trained in battles in Europe. 

Priscilla. 
Yes, Standish is notable and one to trust 
In emergency. But vain is the help of man 
If God be not on our side. 

Alden. 

Now we're speaking 
Of Standish, I'll state my purpose in main 
In calling this morning so early. A charge 
He has given me as his friend, and as friend 
I will faithfully try to discharge it. Deep, 
Deep are the wounds that love makes — deeper, I trow, 
Than sabre-cuts that bring high renown. Standish 
Boasting honorable scars yet confesses 
A vulnerable spot in his heart. The smart 
That was left when Rose died still unabated, 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 51 

He deems but one remedy sure — thinks that you 
Perhaps 

Fbiscilla [in astonishment]. 

I marry Miles Standish, the Captain ! 

Alden. 
If you knew that he loves and desires it — might 

Priscilla 
Pray, what knows the Captain of love — a fighter ? 
Of tender regard for a woman ? 

Alden. 

forget 

His calling and possible roughness of manner, 

And share home with him who fireside has none 

PRISCILLA. 

Forget all a woman feels and discovers 
By her God-given instincts alone ? Well, a love 
One can't show, nor yet speak, must, I ween, a queer 
Sort of malady prove ! Did Standish suppose 
That such wounds could be healed b}^ proxy alone, 
Or through negotiations ? [Laughing derisively.] 

Alden. 

He, doubtless, himself 
Had pleaded his cause, had not duty called hence. 

Priscilla. 
What duty can call one away to prevent 
His settling himself his affairs with his God ? 
Or, if need is so great, with the woman he thinks 
A helpmeet to journey with him to that God? 

Alden. 
His friend, he desired me to open the case, 
Which most likely he intends when returned 
Himself to prosecute. 

Priscilla. 

What friend, pray, is that 
Whom any man needs to interpret himself 
To his wife ? What marriage were that where a man 
Might be at such loss every day, I suspect, 
Translating himself? 

Alden. 

But what saith the Lord, pray, 
Of living alone ? Saith he not, " 'Tis not good V> 
And a man. like Miles Standish has surely most need 



52 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 



Of companion, of comfort, caresses — all, 
In short, to preserve a fair balance in life. 
What were the lone dove without mate ? All nature 
Shows types blessing union of heart and of life — 
And, indeed — 
Priscilla. 

With such views you have never — ? 
John Alden, why do you not speak for yourself? 
[Curtain falls.~\ 




POPULAR DIALOGUES 53 

A SCENE IN COURT. 

CHARACTERS. 

Judge Sober, presiding 

Counsellor Sharp, prosecuting attorney. 

Bluster Snap, counsel for prisoner. ■ 

Phelim O'Shaughnessy, prisoner. 

Hans Pumpernickel, ) 

Frau Pumpernickel, V witnesses for prosecution. 

Constable Ferret, ) 

Terrence Brady, ) 

Bridget Spalpeen, > witnesses for prisoner. 

Mrs. McJerk, ) 

Clerk, Jurors, Crier and Bailiffs. 

Spectators, ad lib. 



Court-room with usual accompaniments. Loud conversation 
suspended on the entrance of fudge, who takes his seat. 

Judge. — Mr. Crier, you may open the Court. 

Crier. — } r es ! yes ! }-es ! All persons having 
any business before this Honorable Court, which stood 
adjourned to this time and place, draw near and give 
their attendance, and they shall be heard 1 

Judge. — An} 7, thing ready this morning, Mr. Sharp? 

Sharp. — Yes, your Honor ! State against O'Shaugh- 
ness}', for larceny, was assigned, and the witnesses for 
the prosecution are all here, I believe. 

Judge. — Call the prisoner, Mr. Clerk. 

Clerk. — Phelim O'Shaughnessy ! 

Phelim [sitting near his counsel']. — Here, your wor- 
Bhip ! [rising and pulling his forelock.] 

Judge. — Let him be arraigned. 

Bluster. — I appear, if your Honor pleases, for Mr. 
O'Shaughnessy. We waive the arraignment and plead 
" Not Guilty." [Phelim sits.] 



54 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

Judge — Has the jury been sworn ? 

Clerk. — Yes, your Honor. 

Judge. — Proceed, Mr. Sharp. 

Bluster. — Before going any further, if your Honor 
pleases, I have here a motion [holding paper in hand'] 
to quash the indictment. The prisoner is indicted for 
the larceny of one hog, the property of Hans Pumper- 
nickel. My point is, that the description of the animal 
alleged to have been stolen is too vague and indefinite — 
and that the indictment, therefore, is fatally defective in 
not stating whether the animal laid is a hog, or a sow, or 
a boar, or a barrow, or a shoat, or a pig. Such an indict- 
ment, your Honor, can never be sustained for a fraction 
of a moment in a court of law. I would refer your 
Honor — if indeed your Honor has any doubt upon so 
clear a point — to the case of Regina v. Tims, Vol. 989, 
English Common Law Reports, page 3001. I have the 
case here, your Honor [producing book J, and will read it 
to you. This was a case 

Judge [interrupting"]. — Have you any thing to say, 
Mr. Sharp ? 

Sharp [smiling]. — Nothing, } T our Honor. 

Judge. — The Court will not trouble you, Mr. Snap. 
I overrule the motion to quash. 

Bluster. — Your Honor will note an exception, then 
[seating himself]. 

Judge. — Certainly [making memorandum]. Proceed, 
Mr. Sharp. 

Sharp. — Gentlemen of the jury, this is an indictment 
against Phelim O'Shaughness}^, the prisoner at the bar, 
for the larceny, on the twenty-fourth of last December, 
of one hog, the property of Hans Pumpernickel. The 
facts in the case you will learn from the witnesses who 
will be produced before } t ou. Call Hans Pumpernickel. 

Crier. — What name? 

Clerk. — Hans Pumpernickel. 

Crier [calling]. — Hans Pumpernickel ! 

Hans [coming forward]. — Yah — yah — he ish here. 

Sharp. — Take the stand, Hans. [Clerk swears witness.] 
Now, Hans, tell these gentlemen here [pointing to jury] 
and the judge all you know about losing your hog last 
winter. 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 55 

Bluster. — If your Honor please, in a case of so much 
importance to my client I must ask that all the witnesses 
in the case except the one testifying shall be excluded. 

Judge. — Certainly, if you wish. Mr. Clerk, call the 
names of the witnesses. [Clerk calls names of witnesses, 
Bluster having handed him a list of prisoner's.] All the 
witnesses whose names have been called, except the one 
now on the stand, will leave the court-room and remain 
outside till they are called. 

[Witnesses withdraw, the opposing witnesses scowling 
defiance at each other.'] 

Sharp. — Now, Hans, speak up loud, so that all these 
gentlemen can hear you. 

Hans. — Yah — yah. Don't nobody bodders me, and I 
dells you der troot and nodin' but zhoost der troot. You 
sees I sa} T s to mine frow, says I, " Katareen " 

Bluster [loudly"] ■ — You needn't tell what you said, to 
your wife, sir. 

Sharp. — Never mind that, Hans. 

Hans. — Den Katareen, she says, " Yat you vants, 
Hans?" Den 

Bluster. — Don't tell us what 3 T our wife said, sir. 

Sharp. — No, Hans. Go on and tell us about your 
losing 3'our hog. 

Hans. — Yah — yah. Dat ish zhoost vat I vas dryin' to 
dell you. Zhoost all lets me be and I dells 3'ou all about 
mine hog and clat Irishman's shtealing him. 

Bluster. — This, certainly, is not evidence, your Honor. 

Sharp. — Hans, hark to me now, and answer the ques- 
tions which I ask you. 

Hans. — Yah — yah. 

Sharp. — Did you lose a hog last winter, Hans? 

Hans. —Yah — I loses one goot hog — so goot as never 
vas mit me before. 

Sharp. — What time in the winter was it ? 

Hans. — Grismas vas der neksht day. 

Sharp. — The day before Christmas — the twenty-fourth 
of December then. What kind of a hog was it ? 

Hans. — I dells you he vas one goot hog. Oh, so goot! 
So pig — so 

Bluster [interrupting]. — A pig ? I thought you just 
now swore it was a hog. [Looking meaningly at jury.] 



56 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

Sharp. — So he did, Mr. Bluster. He was going to 
Kiy bow bsg it was. 

Bans — Yah — yah — dat ish so. He vas so pig as das. 
[ Touching fingers of both hands and describing a circle 
with his arms.] Me and mine frow, we never takes 
round him eder of us. And so fett 1 [Smacking lips.] 
So lett as butter never vas I 

BiiUSTER. — So what ? 

Sharp. — Fat, he means. 

Haj?ts. — Yah — yah. Das ish so. Oh, so fett ! 

Slake*. — You lost him, you say, on the 24th of Decern 
ber last ? 

Hans. — Prismas was der neksht day 

Sharp. — Wnen did you see him again after you lost 
him ? 

Hans. — Ven I sees him more? Oh, dree, four week. 
Den der gonstable he brings mine hog pack. 

Sharp. — That's all, Mr. Snap. He is your witness. 

Bluster [squaring himself off for cross-examination]. 
What is your name, sir ? 

Hans. — Hans Pumpernickel. 

Bluster. — How long have you lived in this country, 
sir? 

Hans. — How long in dis guntree ? Sieben year. 

Bluster. — What do you say ? 

Sharp. — Seven years. 

Bluster [turning to Sharp]. — I'll attend to the wit- 
ness in my own way, if you please, sir. [To Hans.] 
Now, sir, upon your oath, how long have you been in this 
country ? 

Hans. — I zhoost dells you — sieben year. 

Bluster. — That doesn't answer my question, sir. 

Judge. — Really, Mr. Snap, the witness has answered 
the question twice already ; and, moreover, it is an entirely 
irrelevant question. The time of the Court cannot be 
frittered away in such trifling. If you are unable to under- 
stand the witness, and will not avail j T ourself of Mr. 
Sharp's suggestions, the interpreter of the Court must be 
called. 

Bluster [somewhat subdued]. — Yes, your Honor. [To 
Hans.] Seven years, you say ? What kind of a hog did 
you lose? Had he any marks about him? 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 57 

Hans. — I dells you he be a goot fett hog — goot pig 
large hog. Nobody could not mark him — the fett runs 
out of him if dey do. 

Bluster. — Then he had no marks on him? How did 
you know him, then, sir ? 

Hans. — How I knows him ? I did know him when he 
vas a little so pig hog [making a small circle with his 
thumbs and forefingers'], ven he vas nodin but one baby 
hog — yah. Den I cuts one ear and der oder ear — once 
twice — den I knows he vill all der dime be mine own hog. 

Bluster. — Oh ! Then you did mark him after all ? 
[looking to jury.] 

Hans. — I dells you I cuts his both ear. 

Bluster. — What time in the day did you miss him on 
the 24th of December ? 

Hans. — I mish him not, I loses him ven der Irishman 
he steals him. 

Bluster [loudly]. — Take care what you say, sir, about 
stealing. Answer my question : when did you lose him 
that day ? 

Hans. — I eats mine dinner — I goes to mine hog's pen 
— and he vas dare no more ash ever vas. 

Bluster. — You missed him directly after dinner ? You 
said the constable brought him back to you — what con- 
stable ? 

Hans. — Der gonstable ash ish here zhoost now — Misder 
Ferret. 

Bluster, — And 3 T ou swear it was j^our hog that the 
constable brought you ? Upon your oath — your solemn 
oath — remember ? 

Hans. — I dells you, and I dells you now, I shwears it. 

Bluster. — That's all, sir. 

Sharp. — That's all, Hans. You may sit down. [To 
bailiff.] Call Frau Pumpernickel. [Bailiff returns with 
Frau, ivho is sivom.] Frau, did Hans lose a hog last 
winter ? If so, when ? 

Frau. — Der day before Grismas vas me and Hans loses 
©ur fett hog. 

Sharp. — When did 3^011 see him again ? 

Frau. — He ish gone bigger dan tree week ven der 
gonstable he dells me and Hans dat der Irishman 

Bluster.— Never mind that, ma'am. 



58 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

Sharp. — What constable are you speaking of? 

Frau Misder Ferrett, he brings me and Hans' hog 

pack wid him. 

Sharp. — You are sure that the hog the constable 
brought was your hog ? 

Frau [raising both hands and looking around the room]. 
— I knows dat hog — dat hog Peter — so veil I knows mine 
own child. 

Sharp. — Cross-examine, Mr. Snap. 

Bluster. — How did you know the hog was yours ? 
You say the hog belonged to you and Hans ? Are you 
his wife ? 

Frau. — Yah, I be his frow. 

Bluster. — How did you know the hog ? 

Frau. — How I knows der hog? How I knows mine 
child ? I knows him so well I knows him. 

Bluster. — What marks had he on him ? 

Frau. — Marks! [holding up hands. ] Himmel ! You 
dinks me and Hans marks dat hog? Nein, nein ! [em- 
phatically.'] Dere vas no marks on him He vas so fett 
no marks could stay dere. I sees Hans shlit his ears 
mineself. 

Bluster. — Both ears ? 

Frau. — Now one, and den der oder— so — [making mo- 
tion as if drawing a knife across her hand.'] 
■ Bluster.— You swear positively that the hog which 
Constable Ferret brought back was yours, do you ? 

Frau [looking at him with the utmost contempt]. — I 
dells you nodin' more ; yoxx be too doom for me. 

Bluster. — That's all, then. 

Frau —So I dinks [leaving the stand in disgust, before 
Sharp has given her permission, which is done as she 
leaves]. 

[Sharp directs Ferret to be called and sworn.] 

Sharp — Mr. Ferret, state to the Court and jury what 
you know relative to a hog lost by Hans Pumpernickel 
last winter. 

Ferret.— I learned from Hans on Christmas last, that 
his hog had been missing since the day before. I knew 
the hog well, and some time afterwards — on the 11th of 
Inst January — 1 saw the animal in O'Shaughnessy's pen. 
I told u woman there, who 1 understood to be the prison- 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 59 

er's wife, that that hog had been stolen from Hans, and 
she flew at me with curses and an iron spoon which she 
had in her hand, when the prisoner came in, and wanted 
to know what it was all about. I told him who the bog 
belonged to, and he abused me with every thing he could 
lay his tongue to. He said, "No Dutchman ever owned a 
pig like that." I said he did — and so on. At last he got 
summat peacified, when I told him that I should restore 
the hog to his rightful owner. Then he fell to again — and 
I don't know what more wouldn't have happened, if some 
of his friends hadn't over-persuaded him, and I drove the 
hog home to Hans. 

Sharp. — Your witness, Mr. Snap. 

Bluster. — You knew the hog to be what's-his-name's, 
did } T ou ? 

Ferret. — I knew he was Hans Pumpernickel's hog. 

Bluster. — How did you know it, sir ? 

Ferret. — I live near Hans and had seen it almost every 
day, off and on, since it was a little pig. 

Bluster. — Oh, you lived near the hog, did you ? [No 
answer — witness looks contemptuously at B.] Any marks 
about the animal by which you could recognize him ? 

Ferret. — One slit in his right ear and two in his left. 

Bluster. — Sure of that, sir ? 

Ferret — Yes, sir. 

Bluster — 'Twasn't one in his left ear and two in his 
right, was it ? Be cautious, now ; you are on your oath, 
remember, Mr. Constable. 

Ferret — I have told you already — one slit in his right 
ear and two in his left. 

Bluster. — You removed that hog from Mr. O'Shaugh- 
nessy's pen without any warrant— didn't you, sir ? 

Ferret.— I knew it was Hans' hog, and I took him 
home. 

Bluster. — You ma} T stand down, sir. [As Ferret steps 
away Bluster remarks in an audible tone, "You'll hear 
from me shortly, sir!" Ferret replies, " Thank you, sir, 
happy to hear from you at any time !"] 

Sharp [to Court]. — The case for the prosecution is 
closed. 

Judge. — Any witnesses for the defence, Mr. Snap ? 

Bluster. — Yes, 3^ our honor. But before I call any, T 



60 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

ask 3 r our Honor's decision upon a point of law. To my 
mind, there is an essential variance between the indict- 
ment and the proof— essential and fatal. This hog is 
laid in the indictment as the property of one Hans Pum- 
pernickel ; the proof is that he belonged jointly to Hans 
and his wife. 

Judge. — There is nothing in that point, sir. Mrs. 
Pumpernickel, I presume, like some others of her sex, 
proceeds upon the theory that what is her own is her 
own, and what is her husband's is her own also. [Smiles 
in court at this judicial witticism.'] Proceed with your 
defence, Mr. Snap. 

Bluster. — Yes, your Honor— an exception will be 
noted? [Judge nods affirmatively.] Gentlemen of the 
jury, our defence is that this hog was our hog — and I 
shall prove it. [ Takes his seat with a pompous flourish.] 
Call Terrence Brady! [to bailiff, who returns with the 
witness, and the latter is sworn.] Mr. Brady, are you 
acquainted with Mr. O'Shaughnessy? 

Brady. — Is it that ye say ? Do I know Phalim ? Faix, 
and do I know mysilf thin, if I haven't known Phalim 
O'Shaughnessy since he was ivir that high, your worship! 
[Loivering his hand to the level of his knee, to indicate 
the height.] 

Bluster.— You live near him — don't } T ou ? 

Brady. — Right forninst his house. 

Bluster. — Did Mr. O'Shaughnessy have any hogs last 
fall? 

Brady. — And didn't he have two of the swatest cra- 
tliers the blissecl saints ivir set eyes on ? 

Bluster. — What became of them, Mr. Brady? 

Brady. — What wint wid them, do ye say? Didn't 
Phalim and mysilf kill the one of thim in Christmas 
wake for us and the childer— for didn't mysilf buy the 
half of him and pay for him like a man, too— didn't I, 
Phalim ? [To prisoner.] 

Phelim.— Troth and ye did, my boy ! 

Crier. — Silence in eourt 1 [Bailiff approaches Phelim 
and Bluster is seen enjoining silence upon his client.] 

Bluster.— Mr. Brady, you '11 talk to the Cteurt and 
jury. 

Brady. — Yis— and that I will. 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 61 

Bluster. — Tie killed one in Christmas week, you say, 
What became of the other ? 

Brady. — Of the other is it ye say ? Och ! and didn't 
that murtherin' baste of a dirty constable stale him away 
from Phalim's own pen ? And didn't I see him and hear 
him with ni}' own eyes ? And the childer and Biddy 
cryin' too I The thaving spalpeen that he is ! [Shaking 
fist at Ferret.] 

Crier. — Silence in court ! 

Judge. — Witness, you will be committed to jail if you 
don't conduct yourself as a witness should. 

Brady [bowing profoundly to Judge']. — Beg your wor- 
ship's pardon — but ivery hair on my head stiffens into a 
shillala whin I think of the likes of it. 

Bluster. — How do 3^ou know that that hog which the 
constable took from Mr. O'Shaughnessy was his own — I 
mean Mr. O'Shaughnessy's ? 

Brady. — "Wasn't he the last of a litter of sivin ? And 
wouldn't he have been three years ould if the Blissed 
Virgin had spared him till the nixt Saint Pathrick's ? 
And didn't this knife of my own [taking one from his 
pocket] slit the ear on the right of him once [making 
appropriate motions], and the ear on the left of him 
twice the very da}' he was in his six-wakes' birthday ? 
Know him, is it ye say? Does Terrence Brady know 
himself? Thin does he know Phalim's swate pig? 

Bluster.— The witness is yours, Mr. Sharp. 

Sharp. — You are positive that that hog was Phelim's? 

Brady. — As certain as that I'm here before yer Honor. 
Can a man say more? And that man an Irishman ? 

Sharp [smiling]. — I should think not. You may take 
your seat. [Brady steps off the stand.] 

Bluster. — One question I forgot to ask you, Mr. 
Brady. 

Brady [resuming stand]. — Any question ye likes, and 
Terrence Brady's yer boy, if he was there. 

Bluster. — Was anybody present when you slit the 
hog's ears ? 

Sharp. — It is not strictly legal — but, to save time, 
go on. 

Brady. — Was an} T body prisint ? Wasn't Biddy Spal- 
peen and Misthress McJerk ? And didn't Biddy say, 



62 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

" Now, Terrence, be as aisy as iver ye can and don't hurt 
the swate cratlmr ?" 

Bluster. — That's all, Mr. Brady. You may stand 
down. [Brady leaves; and bailiff, at Blustei^s direction, 
calls Bridget Spalpeen, who is sworn.} Miss Spalpeen, 
do you remember any thing about Mr. Brady's marking 
a pig at any time for Mr. O'Shaughness}' ? 

Bridget. — It's Terrence and Phalim and the six-wakes' 
pig ye mane. Terrence's knife wasn't what it should 
have bin for the likes of that— and didn't I plade with 
him not to hurt the poor dumb baste ? 

Bluster. — How old was the pig ? 

Bridget. — Just six wakes to a day. 

Bluster. — When did you see that pig last? 

Bridget. — When he stole him away from Phalim's pin. 
[Pointing to Ferret.'] Bad 'cess to him ! [shaking head.] 

Bluster. — You are sure it was the same animal ? 

Bridget. — Shure — is it? If it were the last breath 
that iver I breathed, I would kiss the book a thousand 
times to the truth of it! [earnestly.] 

Bluster [to Sharp]. — Any questions? [Sharp shakes 
head in negative.] You may be seated. [To bailiff.] 
Call Mrs. McJerk. 

Sharp. — I suppose she is to corroborate the slitting ? 

Bluster. — Yes — and to identify the hog. [Bailiff 
enters with Mrs. McJerk.] 

Sharp. — I'll admit that she'll testifj- to the same as 
the last witness. 

Bluster.— Never mind, Mrs. McJerk. You may be 
seated. I shall not want you. 

Mrs. McJ. — And don't I know it all — bad luck to 
yees ? [tossing her head towards Hans and company.] 

Crier. — Silence in court! 

Judge. — Well, gentlemen, is this to be argued ? 

Sharp. — I have no desire to take up more time, j T our 
Honor. 

Bluster. — My duty to my client, your Honor, renders 
it obligatory upon me to say a few words. 

Judge. — Proceed, sir. 

Bluster [During his speech witnesses for prisoner 
exchange nods and glances of approval and scowl de- 
Jiantly at witnesses Jor prosecution]. — May it please the 

11 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 63 

Court and you, gentlemen of the jury! Presious as youi 
time is, gentlemen, and valuable as my own time is, gen- 
tlemen, I should not address you at the present time, 
gentlemen, did I not feel it incumbent upon me, as one 
in whose hands my client has placed what is dearer to 
him than life itself — his reputation — to call your atten- 
tion to some points which it is quite possible, considering 
the hurry of this trial, may have escaped your attention. 

My client, it is true, is but a common laboring man — 
having, however, the proud distinction of belonging to a 
race which, however some may affect to sneer at, contains 
— I say unhesitatingly — some of the most pre-eminent 
names upon the roll of fame, in this or any other land. 
And I declare to 3 t ou, gentlemen of the jury, that, what- 
ever others ma}' say, the wheels of time will yet — and at 
no distant point of time— roll round the day when for a 
man to be able to saj" " I am an Irishman " will place 
him in a more enviable position than that once occupied 
by him who could say " I am a Roman citizen !" 

My client, gentlemen of the jury, is charged with steal- 
ing a hog Let not what may, perchance, be your esti- 
mate of an animal of that species — as of but comparative 
slight money value — shut from your minds the fact, that 
to my client as a laboring Irishman such an animal is, 
next to the wife of his bosom, the most valuable posses- 
sion which a benignant Providence can bestow upon him. 
I forget not his children. Far be it from me to overlook 
those sweet solacers of the day's toils, those refreshing 
companions of the night. No, gentlemen of the jury, I 
do not forget the children ; but I except them not. With- 
out the pig the children could not live — and what boon 
were they then ? 

The evidence, gentlemen of the jury, upon which the 
State seeks to convict my client, an Irishman, of having 
stolen a pig, an Irishman's second great earthly blessing, 
is before you. 

The law in the case his Honor [turning to Judge and 
bowing profoundly'] will give you. The facts, you, gen- 
tlemen, are to deal with in the light of the law. 

With these remarks, gentlemen — without which I could 
not have laid my head upon my pillow this night, feeling 
that I had discharged my duty to my client — I leave the 



64 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

case with yon, confident that you will never in your de- 
liberations upon it forget that great maxim, without 
which the life of each were a weary burden to be borne 
as best we might through this Sahara of a world — that 
transcendent maxim, "Fiat justitia, mat caelum!" Gen- 
tlemen, I have done ! 

Judge. — Gentlemen of the jury: This is a case of con- 
flicting testimony. You have the evidence upon both 
sides, and its decision I leave with you. 

[Bailiff is sworn by clerk to take charge of jury, when 
the foreman announces that they have agreed upon a 
verdict — the jury have consulted together in their seats 
during the swearing of the bailiff.] 

Judge. — Take the verdict. [To Cleric.'] 

Clerk. — How say you, Mr. Foreman, is Phelim 
O'Shaughnessy, the prisoner at the bar, guilty or not 
guilty ? 

Foreman. — Not guilty. 

Clerk. — Hearken to your verdict as the Court shall 
record. You say that Phelim O'Shaughnessy, the pris- 
oner at the bar, is not guilty. So say you, Mr. Foreman 
— so say you all. [Each juror nods affirmatively.] 

[Amid expressions of intense satisfaction on the part 
of Phelim and friends and corresponding indignation 
and surprise on the part of Hans and friends, the curtain 

/Ufa.] 




POPULAR DIALOGUES 65 

THE MUTUAL DEVELOPMENT SOCIETY; 

Or, CAPITAL vs. LABOR. 

dramatis persons. 

Hon. Ezekiel Tyrannus. 

Mrs. Ezekiel Tyrannus. 

Hon. Obediah Cringey, a lawyer. 

Mrs. F airplay, 

Miss Mansfield, 

Miss Olive Branch, \ f + 

Miss Grace Robinson, < 

Miss Lou Atherton, 

Miss Ella Edgar, 

Billy, an errand boy. 

In one Act, three scenes. 



Scene I. — Parlor in the house of Tyrannus — Mr. and Mrs. 
T. seen sitting — she sewing — he reading the paper. 

Mr. Tyrannus [throwing down the paper, jumps to his 
feet, and paces up and down the room']. — Just as I ex- 
pected, Mrs. T ! I told }^ou that it would be so ! I 
knew it would — and now, for the fortieth time, have my 
predictions again been verified 

Mrs. T. [interrupting.'] — What in the world has come 
over you again, Mr. T. ? 

Mr. T. — Come over me? Nothing, madam, nothing! 
[excitedly] do } 7 ou understand me? absolutely nothing ! 
But did I not emphatically declare that if 'Squire Jones 
allowed those facto^ girls to hold their [sneeringly] 
Mutual Development Society meetings in his hall, that 
they would run mad, and we should all be compelled to 
stop our factories until sane persons could be procured. 

Mrs T— Is that all, Mr. T. ? Then why get into such 
a terrible rage about it ? your girls have not left you, nor 
nave those from any other mill that I have heard of. I 
don't see that the least harm in the world can come out 
of such a society among those working girls ; but it 



66 . POPULAR DIALOGUES 

seems to me, Mr. T., as if the universal failing of your 
sex is to deny women the privilege of exercising the 
powers which God has given them, and any act or effort 
on their part which would tend to elevate them in the 
scale of humanity, you, and such like you, immediately 
set about to cry them down, and would, no doubt, lose 
no chance to make their lives more miserable than even 
now [rising"]. Mr. Tyrannus, I am ashamed of 3^011 \ 
[leaves the room.] 

Mr. T. [looking towards the door.] — There's a model of 
love, honor, and obey, for you, Ezekiel ! [folding his arms, 
looks to the floor.] Well, I guess women have some rights 
[shakes his head] ; but it would never do to give them a 
chance — they're too tyrannical— man could not endure it ! 
Now, if I don't knock that Mutual Development Society 
so far into the middle of next week that it will never again 
be heard from, then my name is not Ezekiel Tj^rannus, 
the honorable ex-member of the New Jersey Legislature ! 
I'll go and see Deacon Smy the [starting to the door, meets 
Gringey]. Good-morning, Mr. Cringe} 7 [shake hands]. 

Mr. C. [shakes Tyrannus' hand violently.] — Good-morn- 
ing, my dear Tyrant — Tyrannus — excuse me — I am de- 
lighted to see } T ou looking so well this morning ! Ma} r I 
venture to ask how is Mrs. T. this morning ? 

Mr. T. — In an ill-humor, Cringe j 7- — in an ill-humor I Do 
3^ou know that ever since those factoiy women took it 
into their heads — the nonsensical idea! — that there was a 
higher and nobler station for every oue of them than at 
their places doing their work, the very deuce has been to 
pay ! M3 r wife indorses every word and act of the [con- 
temptuously'] '« Mutual Development Society" — and there 
is war brewing [handing Gringey a chair]. Take a seat 
[both sit down]. 

Mr. C. — What society did 3^011 say? 

Mr. T. — Mutual Development Society. 

Mr. C. — Oh, I understand — a James' nasium! 

Mr. T. — No, no ! nor a Jiwi-nasiiim ; but a society where 
\A\zy meet together to debate, read, sing, and undoubtedly 
lay plans whereby the}- may render man their slaves and 
very humble servants. 

Mil. (J. — But, my dear boy — excuse the familiarity!— 



POPULAK DIALOGUES 67 

but — it is the custom of all lawyers — you're married, are 
you not ? 

Mr. T. [interrupting. ] — Of course I am! 

Mr. C. — Then you have nothing to fear ! Look at me 
— an old bachelor — I'm one of those who should tremble 
and fear such a formidable combination as you complain 
of; but I tell you, Tyrannus, I am glad to see those hard- 
worked women initiate these steps to raise themselves out 
of the serfdom which capital has imposed upon their labor. 

Mr. T. — But, Mr. Cringe}^ did you never reflect, and 
compare the superiority of the minds of men over that of 
women ? Have 3 7 ou forgotten that man was created first, 
and woman gave to him, afterwards, as a helpmeet ? Had 
it not been the wisdom of the Great Creator to bestow 
upon man the honor of being his first great work, he would 
have created 

Mr. C. [inter rupting.] — Well, I admit that man was 
created first. 

Mr. T. [interrupting.'] — That's what I said ! 

Mr. C. — I mean before woman ! 

Mr. T.— That's what I mean ! 

Mr. C. — The beast was created before man, was it not ? 

Mr. T.— Certainly. 

Mr. C. — Then, since the lowest order of animal nature 
was created first, then man, then woman, it stands to rea- 
son that woman must be superior to man, if man is to the 
brute, on the simple idea of progression — the glorious 
theme you used to harp upon so much. How now ? 

Mr. T. — I don't see it in that light, Cringey. 

Mr. C. — No — but in a far less just one ! Now, let me 
turn prophet for once, Tyrannus, and prophesy that the 
day will come when } t ou capitalists will be brought up the 
round turn, and that, too, by the brains of women [rising]. 

Mr. T. — Nonsense! I don't believe there are as much 
brains in the whole thirteen hundred of my factory girls 
as in the head of }^our cane ! 

Mr. C. — We'll see. Good-morning. 
[Exit Cringey] 

Mr T. — Old Cringey has labored hard to move me in 
my ideas. I'll not give in, though all the world shall de- 
cide against me ! I know I'm right ; but why others 
cannot see the evil of these combinations of women, as 



68 POPULAPw DIALOGUES 

tending to demoralize the community, as I do, is a mys- 
tery [puts on his hat and leaves the room'] 
[Curtain drops.~\ 

Scene II. — Society-room. Rows of girls dressed in factory 
suits on either side of room. Mrs. Fairplay, chairwoman, 
in the centre. Miss Mansfield, secretary, at her right. 

Mrs. F airplay. — Does any member of our little 
Spartan band know of any person who is in sorrow or 
distress ? 

Miss Olive Branch [rising']. . — There is one in my 
district — the girl who lost her hand in the machineiy 
one week since — her mother is also very ill, and want is 
evident from their surroundings. I called upon Mr. 
Tyrannus, of the mill where she worked, but he refused 
to aid them. His excuse was that her injury had spoiled 
over ten dollars' worth of muslins for him and she de- 
served the punishment for her carelessness. I gave her 
one-half of my week's wages — only one dollar and a-half 
it is true — and they were very thankful and blessed our 
Society. [Sits down.] 

Mrs. F. — Noble girl I While it is not in our power to 
reimburse you now,, you may rest assured that you shall 
never want while there is a member of this organization 
to assist you. Sisters [to all], here is a worthy example 
set us — let it prompt us to follow it, and go about doing 
good. Has any member aught to say in behalf of our 
Society ? 

Miss Robinson [rising]. — As chairwoman of the com- 
mittee appointed at our last meeting to prepare an 
address to our much oppressed sisters in the factories of 
this country. I have the pleasure to offer the following 
for the consideration of the Society. [Beads from a 
paper.] " To the oppressed and down-trodden women 
of the whole world : We, your sisters and co-workers, 

employed by capitalists in the of {using the 

name of any place desired), in order to more effectually 
promote our social, moral and intellectual worth to such 
a degree as our individual talents may admit, to promote 
the well-being of our co-laborers, relieve their necessities 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 69 

in sickness and distress, do most sincerely and earnestly 
offer for your consideration the subject-matter of this 
circular. 

" We believe that the creation of man by the All- Wise 
Intelligence was for protection and not oppression. We 
do most emphatically believe that in women may be 
found all the accomplishments — moral and intellectual — • 
that were ever attributed to man as an individual. 

" We do, in the grossness of our scourging by the capi- 
talists, offer up our prayers for the speedy deliverance 
from the imposed servitude of our oppressed sisters in 
factories and shops throughout the entire world ; con- 
demning, as inhuman, the unlicensed course pursued in 
taking us while helpless children from the care and pro- 
tection of our parents, and placing us in the workshops 
of capitalists to weary fully three-fourths of the hours 
twenty-four over our labors, thus preventing us from 
realizing an education, alike beneficial to posterity as 
ourselves. 

" We cry aloud against all nations who thus permit 
their moneyed men to pervert the creatures of circum- 
stances to their pecuniary aggrandizement, to the detri- 
ment of hundreds of lives annually, and a peopling of 
the community with thousands of semi-illiterate women. 

" We appeal, therefore, to you to lend us your aid in 
our high and laudable efforts to suppress this growing 
and unholy evil. Organize bodies for reading and mutual 
culture ; take under your charge the friendless orphans, 
teach them, watch over them, and to your best means 
relieve their wants in sickness and distress, and from the 
indication of our own young band we predict that the 
future will give to the world many bright minds, from 
out even the dusky factory We are for raising the 
standard of individual worth up! up ! ! promising to you, 
as we mutually do to each other, to ' weary not in well- 
doing.' 

" Even now the importance and influence of our little 
Spartan band is being felt by those who, at the expense 
of life and limb, have become millionaires. 

11 In closing this appeal, we disclaim any intentions or 
aspirations to assume a station with man politically. 



70 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

We have aimed higher, and in so doing we ask your 
hearty co-operation." 

Signed by the Committee. 
[Sits down."] 

Mrs. F. — What will you do with your Committee's 
report ? 

Miss Atherson [rising"]. — For one, I heartily indorse 
it, and move that the report be received and adopted. 
[Sits down.] 

Mrs. F. — In the absence of objection, it is so ordered. 
[Pausing.] So ordered, Miss Mansfield. 

Miss Mansfield [rising]. — I have a communication 
addressed to our Society. 

Mrs. F. — Let it be read. 

Miss M. [reads.] — " To whom it may concern : — This 
is to give notice that any and all emploj^ees of nrv factory 
belonging to, or sympathizing with, the so-called ' Mutual 
Development Society' are hereby discharged, and will call 
upon the Cashier for settlement. Signed Ezekiel Ty- 
rannus" [sits down]. 

Mrs. F. — Place it in the waste-paper basket [pausing]. 
No — I have a better plan — we will all stop work ! You 
all know what a flurry he has been in for the last ten days ? 
He is compelled to fill his government contract by da}' 
after to-morrow. We'll stop, girls, and he will be forced 
to accede to our terms. Shall that be our mutual plan ? 

All. — Yes. 

Mrs. F. — In the absence of further business, we will 
now adjourn — Miss Edgar first singing one of her songs. 

[Miss E. sings, the whole company joining in a chorus.] 
[Curtain drops.] 

Scene III. — Curtain rises — Mr. Tyr annus seated at a 
table reading letters — Dress, morning-wrapper . 

Mr. T. — Well, that's a respectable order ! [reads from 
letter :] " If you will furnish us seventy thousand }'ards 
of sheeting, in six weeks from the first proximo, we will 
pay two cents a yard extra for the accommodation" 
[counting his fingers] — Why, I'll make twelve thousand 
dollars out of that. [ Opens another letter — reads :] 
u Sir : — We shall hold you to your agreement - the Gov< 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 71 

ernment officers hold us to ours. The biilance of those 
goods must" [looking up] — M-U-S-T, in great capitals — 
[reads] " must be delivered this week, or you forfeit forty 
thousand dollars" [rising]. Pshaw ! they need not be 
afraid — they'll be done ! [Enter small boy.] Well, Billy, 
what's wanting ? 

Billy.. — Please, sir, the Cashier says that all the girls 
have quit, and they want their money, because 

Mr. T. [interrupting.] — Quit ? What for ? They sha'n't 
do any thing of the kind ! I won't let them ! I'll show 
them that they can't trifle with me ! Go ! send the fore- 
woman to me ! [exit Billy.] Quit ! I can buy every one 
of them, body and soul 1 I'll show them that they can't 
balk Ezekiel Tyrannus before they are twenty -four hours 
older! I'll starve everyone of them! [Enter Billy.] 
Where's Miss Edgar? 

Billy. — There she comes. 

[Enter Miss Edgar. 

Mr. T. [to Miss Edgar.]— What's all this hubbub about? 
Are all the girls mad, or are they going to throw them- 
selves away on some worthless young men, and get mar- 
ried ? 

Miss E. — No, sir ! They have thrown the best part of 
their lives away already, and you, sir, have gathered to- 
gether their sorrow and turned it into riches [producing 
a letter]. Did you write that letter ? [hands it to him.] 

Mr. T. [looking at the letter.]— Yes, I did. What right 
have you to question it ? [hands it back.] 

Miss E. — The right, as one of the members of that 
Society. 

Mr. T. — Do all the girls belong to it ? I thought it 
was made up of a few crack-brained old maids. 

Miss E. — Every factory girl in the county is a member 
of the Mutual Development Society — thousands through- 
out the land are joining in the movement — and let me 
respectfully inform } r ou, Mr. Tyrannus, our time has 
come! We have been like the bundle of fagots— sepa- 
rated, you crush us singly ! joined together in unity, fra- 
ternity, and equality, as we are to-day, there is no power, 
save high Heaven, which can break our bonds of united 
strength ! Now, sir, what will you ? 

Mr. T. [holding the two letters, one in each hand, aside. ]J 



72 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

— Forty thousand dollars forfeit, twelve thousand four 
hundred dollars profit — [to Miss E ] Tell the girls to go 
to work. I will make it all right. 

Miss B. — You have been paying from one dollar and 
fifty cents to four dollars per week. 

Mr. T. — Well, that's enough ; it is as much as any one 
else pays. 

Miss E. — Enough for you to give, but not enough for 
us to receive. We ask that the one dollar and fifty cents 
be made four dollars and fifty cents, the four dollars bo 
made twelve. 

Mr. T. [in a rage.~] — Won't stand such extortion! 
[Looks at his letters again.'] I'll give it this week. 

Miss E. — We want it for one year, sir. 

Mr. T. [aside.] — I'll promise, but I'll never pay them 
at all ! not a cent ! I'll learn them a lesson. [ To 3Iiss 
E.] Very well, go to work ; I'll engage you all for a 
year at those rates. 

Miss E. [producing a paper,] — Then sign this agree- 
ment which the girls have drawn up. 

Mr. T [smilingly.] — Certainly. [Aside.] It will not 
do to back out now, and knowing, as I do, that there is 
not one girl in my factory who has had one-quarter's 
schooling, they haven't got brains enough to bind me very 
close. I'll sign it without reading it, this will make them 
think I am overly sincere, but my retribution will come. 
I'll make them sue for bread on their bended knees yet. 
[ To Hiss E ] Give me the paper. 

Miss E. — Shall I read it to you ? It is written quite 
poorly, but I done the best I knew how. 

Mr. T. [takes the paper.] — No ! don't }^ou think that 
I have confidence enough in you girls to sign your paper 
without reading it ? You all thought that I was a hard- 
hearted employer, but you find that I am not, am I ? 
[Aside. ] A little soft sodder will make them feel good, 
but revenge is mine. [Goes to the table, sits down and 
writes his name, while Mrs. T., Gringey, Billy, and all 
the factory girls enter unobserved by him.] You will 
want this witnessed, forewoman. [Hands it back oj 
him.] You should have brought a witness with 3 r ou. 

Mr. C. [takes the paper.] — I'll witness your signature 
[aside] to the death-warrant of capital monopoly. 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 73 

Mr. T. [rising, turns round, surprised.] — What, you 
here, Lawyer Cringey ? and these girls, too ! [ Gringey sits 
down and writes his name. ] What does all this mean ? 

Mr. C. — L-e-t m-e s-e-e [putting on his spectacles reads, 
slowly~\. "Articles of agreement made and entered into 
this — day of — 18—, by and between the Honorable 
Ezekiel Tyrannus of the one part, and Miss Ella Edgar, 
forewoman, of the other part, both of the town of — , in 
the county of — , and State of — , Witnesseth : 

" The said party of the first part hereby agrees to re- 
tain his entire force of factory operatives for the term of 
fifty-two weeks from this elate, and agrees to pay the said 
party of the second part four dollars and fifty cents per 
week for each operative who has heretofore received one 
dollar and fifty cents, and twelve dollars per week for all 
those who have heretofore received but four dollars 
weekly, and for the faithful performance of this agree- 
ment be, the said Ezekiel Tyrannus, pledges all his 
property, both personal and real estate. Witness my 
hand and seal the day and date first above written. 
Signed, Ezekiel Tyrannus. Witness, Obadiah Cringey." 
This wants an internal revenue stamp to make it complete. 

All [closing around Gringey, offering a stamp']. — Here's 
one. 

Mr. C. [takes one from Billy, reads.] — Internal revenue 
proprietary, Brandreth's pills [handing it bach], that 
won't do, Billy, it wouldn't do to increase the dose just 
now ; your boss has got a very bitter pill on hand already. 
[Billy retires — Gringey lakes one from his pocket and puts 
it on.] Signed, stamped [handing it to Miss Edgar], and 
delivered. 

Mr. T — What does this mean, I say? 

Mr. C. — Why, simply that there is more legal ability 
in 3 r our factory than justice in your heart. They have 
got you handsomely — the law will now protect and defend 
them in their rights [turning to the audience^], and I dare 
say that there is not a man, woman or child who learns 
of this fact but will rejoice, and give three rousing cheers 
for this, the first triumph of labor over the tyrant, 
Capital Monopoly. 

[Curtain falls.] 



74 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

PATENT MEDICINE. 

CHARACTERS. 

Nathan Worry, a dyspeptic farmer. 
Dr. Oldschool, physician. 
Mrs. Worry, wife of Nathan. 



Scene I. — Room in private house. 

Mr. Worry [seated in easy chair, looking generally 
miserable']. — If I've got to call this misery life [groan- 
ing] the sooner I am out of it the better ! Not a single 
hour of comfort have I had for more'n a year now. I've 
tried ev'ry thin', and ev'ry thin' fails. Somehow or 'nother 
nothin' 'pears to agree with me — ev'ry thin' goes agin the 
grain ! 

Mrs. W. [converses in a dismal, cheerless tone.] — You 
don't feel a bit better to-day — do you, Nathan ? [Sitting.] 
You're lookin' mis'rable — mis'rabler than I've see'd you 
yit, I reely b'lieve ! Stick out your tongue ! [He com- 
plies — she leaves chair to inspect.] I declare to you it's 
furred thicker'n pie-crust ! [Resuming seat] It's my 
actil 'pinion, Nathan, that none of them doctors knows 
any thin' what's the matter with you. 

Mr. W. [groaning^] — No more do I. I grow worser 
and worser ev'ry day I live. I'm goin' fast — and, the 
way I feel 'most all the time, now-a-days, I'm 'bout glad 
on't! 

Mrs. W. — Nathan, you've no business as a professin' 
man to talk in that way. You know you're sinnin' when 
you do it. What if you are goin' fast — and it's putty 
plain to me you are — you've no call to be glad on't, you 
know well's as I do! You must git resigned, Nathan — 
that's what you want and oughter have ! 

Mr. W. — I am resigned. I feel as if I could put up 
with any thin' after what I've gone through. 

Mrs. W. — 'Taint the right kind, and you know it. 
Your head don't feel any comfortabler, I s'pose ? 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 75 

Mr. W. — Not a mite — feels jest as if I had forty camp- 
meetin's in it in full blast. 

Mrs. W. — And your food don't set well on your stom- 
ick any more — does it ? 

Mr. W — No — I don't relish any thin', and if I did, 
'twould nearly kill me to eat any thin'. 

Mrs. W. [looking wise.'] — I'm jest as certain it's your 
liver, Nathan, as I'm certain that I'm a livin' woman. 
You know I've stuck to it from tl e very fust that it's 
your liver and nothin' else. I stick to it yit, and I shall 
till you're dead and gone. I do wish you'd a-heered to 
me a long while ago and did as I wanted to have you. 
You might have ben a great 'eal better this very miuit. 
Who knows ? 

Mr. W. — Didn't I go to see that doctor you told me 
of? What's his name ? 

Mrs. W.— Doctor Lobely? 

Mr. W. — Didn't I go to see him — and didn't I take 
more'n fifty bottles of his blood-root bitters ? And they 
didn't do me a bit of good ! I only wish I'd kep' on 
with Dr. Oldscliool ! 

Mrs. W — Well you didn't, I can tell you, Nathan ! 
Y r ou'd a-ben carrid out feet foremost long afore this if I 
hadn't a-got you out o' the notion o' list'nin' to him ! I 
hope I may be forgiven for't. but I actilly think he'd be 
properer named if he's called old fool ! Didn't he say he 
wouldn't give you a hooter of med'sin ? 

Mr. W. — More'n he didn't — I b'lieve now I was on 
the mend fast. 

Mrs. W. — On the mend, Nathan ! Lawful sakes ! 
You're goin' out o' your head, Nathan ! Didn't 'Zuby 
Pepper say over and over agin— day in and day out — 
and 3 t ou know she seed you 's often 's three or four times 
a clay — that you were failin', failin', all the time ? Now, 
didn't she ? 

Mr. W. — So you said, I b'lieve. But it 'pears to 
me like I oughter know as much 'bout myself as 'Zuby 
Pepper or anybody else. 

Mrs. W — But you can't. Nathan ! Sickness 's mighty 
deceivin'. You think you're goin' to git up and about 
right away, and the fust thing you know j^ou're stone- 
dead— go off jest like that [snapping finger~\. I reely 



76 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

don't think — you know I never didn't — that you treated 
Doctor Lobely fair. I don't think — as a Christian wo- 
man I don't think — you gin his med'cin a fair try. 

Mr. W. [getting somewhat animated.] — What would 
you have a man do, woman alive? Isn't more'n fifty 
bottle enough, I'd like to know ? You wouldn't drown a 
man clean out — would you ? 

Mrs. W. — Now don't take on so, Nathan ! Jest keep 
yourself 's easy 's you can ! You're bad enough off, 
goodness knows — and you '11 only git worse if you git 
so excited. As I was sayin', I don't actilly think 3 r ou 
took bitters enough. No more does 'Zuby Pepper— that 
I know — for I heerd her say jest them very words with 
my own ears, Nathan. And if anybody knows any thin' 
'bout any kind o' sickness in these parts I should think 
'Zuby oughter! She's laid out more'n twenty folks, old 
and young— some on 'em sick one way and some 'nother 
— and she's been 'round the country missing upwards of 
a dozen year! Plaguey few doctors she can't teach a 
few things to, I tell you ! Didn't 'Zekiel Harlow have 
the matter with his liver — and didn't Dr. Lobely 'tend 
him — and didn't 'Zuby nuss him, night an' day, all the 
living time he 's sick ? 

Mr. W— He died, didn't he? 

Mrs. W. — What do you ask sech a question as that for, 
Nathan? You know he did. Didn't we go to hear his 
fun'ral preached — and don't you mind my sayin' to }'Ou 
as we was a-comin' home, what an improvin' 'casion we'd 
lied ? 'Zekil Harlow's dead and buried, certain — and it's 
a mighty mean stone his widder's gin him. I'll do 
better for you'n that, Nathan, if you're called fust — 
you may depend on't. Wal — 'Zuby studied into 'Zekil's 
liver, and studied, and studied till she got to know all 
about it — all about it — 'cept them doctor names, which 
don't amount to shucks, anyhow ; and saj^s she to me the 
very day I told her how that you had gin over takin' any 
more of Doctor Lobely's med'cin — and I didn't tell her 
right off quick's you stopped, 'cause I wasn't willin' to 
let on what you'd ben and done — howsomever, says 'Zuby, 
sa}-s she, soon's I'd told her, says she, "Axy, Nathan hasn't 
took enough of that med'cin by a great sight," says she. 
"Zekil Harlow," says she, "took a hundred and forty- 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 77 

two on 'em to my certin knowledge," says she. " Arter 
the d'sease's sot and took root," says she, "in the systim, 
it takes a power of bitters to clean it out." That's what 
she said to me — did 'Zuby Pepper that very day. And 
then she went -on and explained all about this liver sick- 
ness jest for all the world as if she was a born doctor. 
I seed right through it all in a minnit. You see, Nathan, 
the liver's — I '11 show j^ou so you '11 know all 'bout it 
plain as preachin'. [Going towards Nathan.'] 

Mr. W. — Now, Axy, don't worry me ! I feel mis'r'ble 
enough now. 

Mrs. W.— I won't hurt you, Nathan — it's all for joxhy 
own good. [Drawing chair by his side, and seating.'] I 
was goin' to tell you jest 'zactly as 'Zuby explained it all 
to me. You see the liver's here. [ Touching his teft side 
on the chest.] 

Mr. W. [wincing.] — Oh, don't, Axy, I say! 

Mrs. W. — Didn't I say 'twas your liver that ailed you ? 
And that jest proves it. The liver's right down under 
the borax — jest touches it like — aiu't fastened fast to 
it, but moves back'ards and forreds kinder towards it. 
Wal, all the blood's in the liver, you see — and when you 
take a long breath — so — [expanding her chest and inhal- 
ing] it brings the liver up agin the borax — and when 
you let your breath out agin — so — [illustrating] the 
liver goes back agin where 'twas afore — kinder slump ! — 
jest a^ if you'd throwed some cold mush agin the wall. 
Now, you see, [growing oracular and bringing forefinger 
of her right hand forcibly down into the palm of her left 
as she makes a point,] if you breathe quick much — jest as 
you allers do when you're a-movin' or a-workin' hard — 
the liver keeps a-goin' forred and back — thumpity-thump 
— thumpity-thump agin the borax — and if it's kep' at it 
long, the outside of the liver — the bag-like, you know — 
gits worn through with, and the good blood that's in the 
liver — comes in, you see, from your vittles that you eat — 
runs out o' the holes, and the bad blood — that's stickin' 
to the inside of the borax all round the liver — jest as the 
water does to the puddin'-bag when I put it in to bile — 
the bad blood gits in — keeps a-gittin' in 'till the liver 
matterates, and matterates, and keeps on matteratin' 'till 
the matter gits to the heart — and then this matter-stun* 



78 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

clogs and chokes up the heart and it can't beat any more 
— and then we're dead ! 

Mr. W. — That's what's the matter — is it ? 

Mrs. W. — Nathan, you oughter be ashamed of your- 
self! Jokin' 'bout sech ser'ous subjicks-! You under- 
stand — don't you — what I jest explained? 

Mr. W.— I guess I do — I was 'most asleep, some of 
the time — 'bout the borax and liver — wa'n't it ? [Yawn- 
ing.] 

Mrs. W. — Now, Nathan, that ain't a-treatin' on me 
right. Sick a man as you are — and I a-takin' pains to 
explain to you somethin' for your good — and you a-tryin' 
to go to sleep ! What good is it to do me, I'd like to 
know ? And I think it very ungrateful in you— mebbe 
a dyin' man soon — not to hear me out. 

Mr W. [yawning again.'] — I am so sleepy, Axy. Go 
on, if you want to; I'll do my best to keep awake. 

Mrs. W. — Where was I? Le'me see. Oh, 'bout them 
bloodroot bitters of Doctor Lobely's. 'Zuby didn't ex- 
plain this out to me, but the Doctor he did. This blood- 
root, you see, 's'most all the same kind of stuff as the 
good blood — that is. the juice on't, and that's steeped 
out so it comes e'enamost reel pure blood — what's put in 
along it's only somethin' to keep it from spilin' — some 
essence of some 'arb or t'other 

Mr. W. — Guess it's liquor, ain't it? 

Mrs. W. — You know better, Nathan Worry; you 
know better'n that. Ain't Doctor Lobely the president 
of the teetotle ? What do you mean ? 

Mr. W. — Nothin'; go on, if you want to; only I 
b'lieve it's liquor. 

Mrs. W. [earnestly.] — 'Taint, and you know 'taint. 
Don't take on so, Nathan. You must save yourself long 
as you can. This bitters, 3 r ou see, goes into the liver — 
and bein' as it's thicker'n the blood, it crowds into the 
holes that are worn out, as I jest explained to you, and 
fills 'em up byhi by— up chuck — and there can't no more 
blood git out, and you git well, you see. But you have 
to keep a-takin' and keep a-takin 1 on't till all the holes is 
stopped up — sometimes sooner and sometimes later. 
Nathan Worry, you're asleep, as I'm iivin' 1 Nathan ! 
[loudly. ] 



POPULAH DIALOGUES 79 

Mr. W. [waking and rubbing eyes.'j — Go on, if you 
want to. 

Mrs W. — You've ben and gone asleep jest at the im- 
portant pint. 

Mr. W. — I heerd you, Axy, about the bitters filling 
jp chuck. 

Mrs. W. — Wal, do for massy's sake, keep awake now! 
When you've took bloodroot bitters enough to stop all 
the holes up, then arter that you only jest want to take 
some catnip tea to keep the pores open so's to let the air 
into the liver to venterlate the blood — and you'll never 
die unless you die of some other disease. Now do you 
understand ? 

Mr. W. — I understand. How happened 'Zekil Harlow 
to die, then ? 

Mrs. W. — Jest his own tomfoolery Might a-ben alive 
and hearty now, fur 's aught I know, if he'd a-done's the 
Doctor told him. But no 1 he wouldn't do it — he allers 
was one of your so smart men that knows a precious 
deal more'n anj^body else — he wouldn't tend to takin' 
the catnip— and so he died — died along o' want o' ven- 
terlation of the borax — so Doctor Lobely told me him- 
self — and not o' liver. I reely b'lieve this bloodroot's a 
nateral medicine— provided for us by God himself! 
Many and many's the time I've seen the dumb critters — 
the hens and the lambs and the pigs — a-nippin' and a- 
nippin' at it 'round in the paster— and that's what's 
keepin' them so healthy, I reely b'lieve! You never 
knowed any of sech to die of the liver— now did you ? 

Mr. W. — Never examined, and can't tell. Let's talk 
'bout somethin' else. I b'lieve it makes me sicker to hear 
you talk about that stuff than I'd be if you'd only let me 
alone. 

Mrs. W. — How can you expect ever to be any better, 
Nathan, if you don't do somethin' for yourself? You 
know you've got the liver bad— 3-011 couldn't help a-hol- 
lerin' when I jest kinder touched you softly-like 

Mr. W. — I called it a putty good punch, Axy. 

Mrs. W. — You know better. Nathan I You've got it 
on you, I saj 7 ; and you're a-lettin' it run on and run oc 
— a-doin nothin' for it in the wav of docterin'. 



80 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

Mr. W. — And I don't want to, unless I can git hold 
of some sound doctrine. 

Mrs. W. — Don't bother me with your nonsense, when 
I'm advisin' with you — poorly off as 3*011 be, too — and a- 
jokin' like as if you'd a right to. You're a-lettin' it run 
on till it'll run away with you putty quick, if you don't 
look out sharp. You haint took no med'cin no kind for 
more'n three days now— have yer ? 

Mr. W. — No ; and what's more, ain't goin' to neither, 
unless Dr. Oldschool tells me to. I'm a-goin' to have 
him come and see me this very day. 

Mrs. W. — You act like as if you were persessed, 
Nathan. Didn't you say you wouldn't never hev him 
set foot inside your door again ? 

Mr. W. — You said that, Axy ; I didn't. 

Mrs. W. — Did you say a lisp agin it ? 

Mr. W. — No — and more fool I. Fact is, Axy, I've 
ben thinkin' a little 'bout some things some days now, as 
I've ben sittin' and mopin' round here, and I've come to 
the conclusion that it's 'bout time for me to strike out 
for myself now. You've had your say, Axy, a good 
bit now — and you see what's come of it. I'm goin' to 
have my say for's long, and if I don't git any better, 
I'm tol'bly certain nobody's say won't mar or make 
me. 

Mrs. W. — Nathan, do 3 t ou reely mean that you're 
a-goin' to call in Dr. Oldschool '( 

Mr. W. — I shall do it, Axy — shall send for him to 
come around this afternoon. 

Mrs. W. — Your blood will be upon your own head, 
then, Nathan Worry ! [raising her hands. 2 I won't have 
nothin' to do with it! You've got to run your own 
resk. 

Mr. W.- — So I've ben thinkin' ! Set down, Axy, and 
hear me out. I listened to 3*011, a bit ago, 3*011 know. 

Mrs. W. [seating herself resolutely.'] — /won't git asleep, 
Nathan, lint you can't talk me 'round, and 3*011 needn't 
waste 3'our breath a-tryin'. 

Mr. W. — I shouldn't try any thin' like that, Ax3 r , 3 r ou 
know. [Faint attempt at a smile.] 'Cute as you are, 
3-011 forgit some things well's other folks ; and I want 
to tell you a little, which, like's not, you disremembcr. 

17 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 81 

When 1 fust begun to ail, you know T wanted to do as 
Dr. Oldschool said. You said "No," and I let you have 
your way. You was so scary about my takin' great 
lumps of pisin stuff that you got me to try Dr. Pellet. 
He gin me 'bout's much sugar as'd stay on the pint of a 
needle in a damp day, and made me hold my breath if 
any of the smell from the lalocks was 'round. 

Mrs. W. — Dear knows his med'ein couldn't hurt you, 
if it didn't do 3^011 any good I And that's inore'n yon 
can say of some others ! 

Mr. W. — I knew he wasn't doin' me any good, and 
arter a while } t ou find it out and pester me to try Dr. 
Baden. 

Mrs. W. — Pester you ! How can you say that, Nathan ? 
Wasn't I a-workin' and a-conjurin' all for your good ? 

Mr. W. — In your way, Ax}^. Dr. Baden he puts me 
to soak in the mornin' — takes me out at noon — sets 
me under the dam through the afternoon — and makes a 
water-tank out of me durin' the night. You found I 
was gittin' to hate water so that you was afraid I'd break 
the pledge, and you wanted I should try Dr. Ninny. 

Mrs. W. — Cold water never did hurt anybody yit in 
this born world. 

Mr. W. — They say drownin's the easiest death — them 
who've tried it. Dr. Ninny he kep' me hold of them 
nibs with the wires hitched to 'em while he turned the 
crank of the machine till I cut such a figure a-jumpin', 
a-hoppin', and a-dancin' — feelin' all the time jest as a 
feller might who'd eaten hearty of herrin'-bones — that 
you was glad enough to call him off and git me home 
agin. 

Mrs. W. — You know's well as I do, Nathan, that 'lec- 
tricity's good for folks ! 

Mr. W. — A feller gets too much on't sometimes, Ach- 
sah - 'specially in thunder-gusts. Then you got me to 
see Dr. Fumbler, who rubbed me, and pulled me, and 
stretched me, and twisted me, and jerked me about so 
that you were mortal 'feard you'd have to take me home 
in pieces — and as you wasn't certain you could put me 
together agin right, you made him let me alone. 

Mrs. W. — Now, Nathan, what is there that's better in 
this cold, onfeelin' world than symperthy ? And you 



82 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

know that was the symperthetic treatment. If you hadn't 
a-ben so onresliss-like I expect 'twould a-taken all the 
kinks out of you. 

Mr. W. — That's what I was thinkin' at the time — and 
laid me out straight enough. Then comes Dr. Hum — 
the feller that teched you where }^our dinner hurts you 
and rolled up his eyes and jabbered somethin', and said 
you were healed of every disease. 

Mrs. W. — So you would a-ben, if you'd only had faith 
and b'lieved him. 

Mr. W. — I had faith enough to b'lieve him a thorough- 
bred, full-blooded humbug — but it didn't cure me for all 
that. Then that female doctor — but I won't say any 
thin' 'bout that, 'cause you got riled when she was goin' 
to have you killed off fust and begun to talk about my 
secon' wife. 

Mrs. W. — I allers b'lieved she was nothin' but a man 
dressed up in woman's clothes. 

Mr. W. — You giv her an extra dressin' with your 
tongue, I remember. Then, when I had a good right to 
think I'd a-done my duty by you and might be allowed 
to do somethin' like I wanted to, nothin' would do but I 
must have Dr. Lobely and his bloodhound biters. 

Mrs. W. — Blood-root bitters- and the patentest medi- 
cine in the whole country— that you may depend upon ! 

Mr. W. — It's patent to me — that's certain ! Howsom- 
ever we've talked that stuff enough, and we won't wrangle 
any more 'bout it. That's 'bout what I've ben goin' 
through with — statin' it fairly and not stretchin' on't a 
whit. I've a sorter notion how that I've got to the eend 
of that woosted. I'll try Dr. Oldschool, as I told you, 
and we'll see what comes of that. 

Mrs. W. — 'Tain't no kind of use tryin 1 to argufy with 
you, Nathan, when you once git your back up, and I 
ain't a-goin' to. But - just you mark my words — [raining 
her hand and pointing her forefinger solemnly^— I never 
yit knowed a human bein' speak disrespeckful of them 
blood-root bitters who didn't die within a year ! Re- 
member that, Nathan, and don't sa} T I didn't give you 
fair warnin'. [_Exit.~\ 

Mr. W. - I guess the time it took him to die'd depend 
'bout's much on how long Lobely 'tended him as any thin' 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 83 

else. Now my mind's made up on that point 'bout which 
I've had so much fuss with Axy, I declare I begin to 
feel better'n I have for a long time. 

Scene II. — Room as before. 

[Mr. W. in easy chair. 3Irs. W.'s voice outside: "Now, 
Doctor, don't you dare give Nathan any of your pisen 
drags ! If you do, I'll throw 'em away, unbeknowings 
to either of you !"] 

Dr. Oldschool [in the act of opening door']. — Mrs. 
Worry, attend to your baking ! When I require a con- 
sultation, I'll let you know — provided I want you ! [En- 
tering.] Nathan, good-evening ! What are you huddled 
up in that old woman's chair for? Wiry aren't you out 
and stirring 'round ? 

Mr. W. — Fact is, Doctor [extending hand, which Doc- 
tor shakes'], I'm putty nigh used up. Set down — set 
down. I'm glad to see you and hev ben wantin' a long 
time to have a chat with you. 

Dr. [seating.] — You must understand, Nathan, that I 
can have but very little patience with you. 

Mr. W. — Doctor, if you only knew what I've been 
through with sence you were here last 

Dr. — I know all about it ; and that's why I am so out of 
patience with } t ou. A man of good sense who will suffer 
himself to be nosed around as you have, don't deserve 
any sympathy ; and precious little he will get from me ! 
Both of us remember what happened when I was last 
here, and I shan't mince matters at all. Understand, I 
come to see 3'ou— to take charge of you — and no one, in 
the house or out of it, must interfere. If it is done in a 
single instance, I am done with you, Nathan. 

Mr W. — I can't blame you, Doctor. I've been makin' 
a simpleton of myself. 

Dr. — " A man's foes shall be they of his own house- 
hold." We start, then, with a distinct understanding, 
Nathan ? 

Mr. W. — You may do with me jest what you like. I 
haven't a word to say agin it. 

Dr. [examining chest— feeling pulse — looking at eyes 
and tongue.] — Let me see how much they've left of you 



84 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

Upon my soul, there's more of you than I expected to 
find. It's well for you that you've such a constitution — 
or } r ou'd been running on your by-laws by this time. 

Mr. W. — Can I ever git well agin, Doctor ? 

Dr. — Nonsense, man ! You might have been in prime 
order and condition months ago, if you'd followed my 
directions. You have been tampering with yourself since, 
and you'll need a longer time to pick up. What do you 
eat ? 

Mr. W. — I don't relish nothin' — I hanker arter things 
which I know I hadn't oughter to have — and what I 
oughter have don't stay on my stomick. 

Dr. — What do you hanker after now, Nathan ? 

Mr. W. — Seems as if some beefsteak would go good — ■ 
but I know 'tain't best for me to have it. 

Dr. — Oh, you know — do you ? Then I don r t know 
what I'm here for. Have you such a thing as a gridiron 
about the house, Nathan ? 

Mr. W. — I declare I don't know. [Calling.] Any\ 

Mrs. W. \_who has been standing at door, pushed ajar, en- 
tering, with indications of bread-making about her.] — Don't 
ask me to git any thin' for your pisens, Nathan, for I will 
hev nothin' to do with nothin' of the kind ! 

Dr. — Mrs. Worry, attend to what I tell you ! [sternly.] 
Have you a gridiron in the kitchen ? 

Mrs. W [rather cowed.'] — I don't know for certin, 
Doctor, whether there's any gridiron about. But I'll go 
look. [Exit.] 

Dr. — A tender beefsteak — quickly broiled— rare done — 
will be just the thing for you. 

Mr. W. — You know best, in course — but won't it dis- 
agree with my liver ? 

Dr. [jumping from chair.] — Liver, Nathan ! You 
haven't any liver ! There isn't ai^ sensible man of m} r 
acquaintance who has a liver — unless he's sick — and the 
sickness brings it. 

Mrs. W [entering.] — I've found one, Doctor — but it's 
powerful rusty. 

Dr. — Have it well cleaned, then ; and [looking at watch] 
one hour from this have the table set for Nathan, with a 
tender beefsteak, broiled quick, rare done — some of your 
good bread and butter, tool 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 85 

Mrs . W. [hesitating.'] — But, Doctor, won't bran bread be 
better for him ? 

Dr. [loudly.'] — Do as you're told [ Mrs. Worry leaving, 
somewhat startled]. One moment, Mrs. Worry — add a 
enp of green and black tea mixed, pretty strong. [Mrs. 
Worry exit — her voice heard outside : " Might as well git 
his shroud made fust as last !"] Talk about your liver, 
Nathan ! Why, a short time hence, the way 3 r ou've been 
going on, }^ou'd either be under the sod or as big a fool as 
that he-Pepper, 'Zuby— pepper-sass, some call her ! Do 
3^011 want to know what's the matter with }^ou, Nathan ? 
I would have told you a year ago, if I'd been permitted. 
Now I know that 1 can say what I please, and that you'll 
do as I say You wouldn't have been so ready, then ; but 
you have learned somewhat since. You've called me in 
at last, because you have become disgusted with your 
attempts, and you think you can't be any worse off, what- 
ever I may do. I believe, moreover, you have a linger- 
ing half-notion that I can do something for you. I can, 
Nathan — but you must first understand your disease. 
You are dying, Nathan — dying of want of a gridiron/ 

Mr. W. [smiling.] — Never heerd tell of that disease 
afore, Doctor! 

Dr. — I know that — pity you hadn't, though. If you 
farmers, as a class, don't hear of it soon and apply the 
proper remedies, there'll be farms enough hereabouts in 
administrators' hands before long. Nathan, did you ever 
hear of any animal's being used for food besides the 
hog? 

Mr. W. — 'Casionty a beef critter, or so, I b'lieve, Doctor. 

Dr. — That's well said — occasionally — and semi at that, 
in this bailiwick. Upon my soul, I believe no greater 
blessing could be conferred upon our farmers than to have 
the hog-cholera sweep off all the swine in the country ! 

Mr. W. — Why, Doctor, bacon allers agreed with me 
when I was able to work hard. 

Dr. — Pish ! You aren't able to work hard now, simply 
because eating so much bacon never did agree with you, 
I tell 3 t ou. Pork in its place, Nathan — and that place 
isn't the human stomach all the time, I assure you. 
You've gone the whole hog—and now you're pa3 T ing the 
penalty. That's why you farmers bristle up so when any- 



86 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

body talks against your pet notions. You grow a few 
busiiels of wheat — don't you, Nathan ? 

Mr. W. — A thousand, last 3'ear! [ faintly smiling.'] 

Dr. — Don't forget, Nathan, that very excellent bread 
can be made of wheat. 

Mr. W. [rising from chair, growing earnest, infected by 
the Doctor's manner.] — A man can work so much better 
on good, solid corn-bread, Doctor. 

Dr — Pish ! You might as well dump the stones from 
the pike down into 3 T our stomach, and make your stomach 
break them ! Nathan, remember you're not going to leave 
us 3'et awhile ! 

Mr. W. [walking around cheerful.] — I b'lieve } r ou, Doc- 
tor. I feel better than I have for months. 

Dr. — You have improved fifty per cent, since I've 
been in the room. I've a great mind to charge you for 
two visits to-day. You will get well, I say — not because 
I shall cure } t ou — but because you'll let your good sense 
guide you. Listen ! You are troubled with indigestion. 
That's what we moderns call it. In old times it was 
known as original sin. Here's my prescription : Eat 
whatever your stomach craves at regular hours. If 
animal food, broiled or boiled or stewed — never fried. 
Abjure pork. Enjoy your meals. Eat a light supper. 
Tea in preference to coffee. Discard milk for the present. 
Feed your corn-meal to your stock. I don't say to } T our 
hogs, for, I take it for granted, you'll kill them and put 
their carcasses in the compost heap. Eat cold wheat 
bread, never hot. Take active exercise in the open air 
in all weathers, with proper precautions against exposure. 
This last for a few weeks — after that your farm work will 
give 3 r ou exercise enough. When 3 T ou go to work again, 
don't over-do. Better enjoy a hundred dollars while 
you have it, than make a thousand dollars which 3 t ou can 
never enjoy. Two points more : Be sure that, living as I 
tell 3~ou, nothing will hurt 3 7 ou. That is the first. Be 
cheerful. That is the second. And, to secure it [lower- 
ing voice], don't keep too close at home for some time to 
come [laughing]. It's a delicate matter, Nathan, but I 
must speak out. Have 3-ou attended to the prescrip 
tion ? 

Mr. W. — Every word on't. 



POPULAR DTALOGUES 87 

Dr. — And 3 r ou'll observe it in all respects ? 

Mr. W.— Faithfully. 

Dr. — Then [slapping him on the shoulder] I'll warrant 
3 7 ou, Nathan, — accidents excepted, — for as long as you'll 
care about living. You begin to look somewhat like 
yourself, man — at least around the edges. 

Mr. W. — It does me good to see you and hear you 
talk, Doctor. 

Dr. — It ought to. Nathan, do you know my objections 
to a stone-house ? 

Mr. W — Because it's so often a jail or a penitentiary ? 

Dr. [laughing.]— No; because it keeps }^ou cold in 
winter, hot in summer, and damp all the time. I've seen 
humans very like stone houses, Nathan. Do you know 
what I would have done if the}' had made out to kill you 
off by keeping us apart ? 

Mr. W.— What, Doctor? 

Dr. — Why, Nathan, after they'd put the slab up, I 
would have stolen in some night — they say we people 
do that, you know, but it's a vile slander — taken down 
the lying thing, " Sacred to the memory of," &c. — you 
know the stereotyped stuff — and put up a neat affair 
which wouldn't blush to see sunlight, for it would have 
told the truth — " Died of hog and hominy." 

Mr. W. — You think that would have pleased sur- 
vivors ? 

Dr. — It would have gladdened every honest man, 
Nathan. But I must be going. 

Mr. W. — Oh, Doctor, don't hurry. You do me more 
good than medicine. 

Dr. — Little I'd do you if I didn't. When you get 
quite yourself again, Nathan, cheerful and joking as you 
were before you straddled your hypo, I'll drop in often 
and see you. By-the-by, I heard the worst conundrum 
this morning I ever heard in my life. 

Mr. W. — That's sayin' a good 'eal, Doctor. What 
was it ? 

Dr. — I was at Jim Stokes's — baby sick — and the 
chimney smoked frightfully. I'd said something or 
other, tiying to be funny — don't remember now what it 
was —when Jim said to me, "Doctor, why is that chim- 
ney like a bird with a crippled wing?" I knew the 



88 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

rascal's tricks, and wasn't going to bother my bead with 
trying to get the resemblance, so I said, of course, that 
I didn't know. " Because there's a defect in the flue ! 
(flew,)" said Jim, looking as innocent as if he hadn't 
done any thing worthy of a beating — which I certainly 
would have given him if his wife hadn't been there ! 

Mr. W. [laughing almost heartily.'] —That was bad 
enough, certin, Doctor. 

Dr. — You have had time to read the papers. I've been 
so busy that I haven't. Any thing new ? 

Mr. W. — You know we've bought Russian Ameriky, 
don't you ? What do you think about it ? 

Dr. — Yes, I knew that. I think the best thing that'll 
come to us from that purchase is the conundrum I con- 
cocted about it. 

Mr. W.— As bad as Jim's ? 

Dr. — You shall judge. They call the territory Sitka, 
you know. Hark to the conundrum. What is the most 
distant portion of the United States ? 

Mr. W. — I s'pose, in course, yer mean Sitky, but I 
don't see why. 

Dr. — You've travelled in the Middle States and in the 
South, and you'll see the point. Because it is the fur 
corner ! 

Mr. W. [laughing heartily.] — I must think on't a bit 
afore I decide which is the worst — Jim Stokes's or 
yours ! 

Dr. [joining laugh.] — I'll give you till my next call, 
which will be this time three days hence. Have you any 
moral reflection, Nathan, suggested by the late Rebel- 
lion ? Almost everybody has. 

Mr. W. — Nothin' partickler. What do j^ou mean? 

Dr. — I have. The moral I draw from it is, Never se- 
cede unless you're sure you will suc-ceed 1 Good-bye, 
Nathan! [going.] 

Mr. W. [accompanying him to door.] — But you've left 
me no medicine ! 

Dr. — Yes, I have. No pork! That's my patent 

MEDICINE 1 

[Curtain falls."] 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 89 

THE PREMATURE PROPOSAL, 

CHARACTERS. 

Peter Doughty. 

Patience, his wife, a hypochondriac. 

Mrs. Hastings. 

Betsey Ann Hastings, her daughter. 



Scene I. — A potato-patch — Peter hoeing potatoes. 

Peter [soliloquizing']. — If our two children had lived 
perhaps she wouldn't have got so bad. What can ail 
the woman, I'd be glad to know ? 

[Enter Betsey Ann.] 

Betsey. — Good-morning, Mr. Doughty. 

Peter. — Why, Betsey Ann, how d'ye do ? How's all 
at home ? 

Betsey. — All's well ; and how's Mrs. Doughty ? [with a 
tinkling laugh.'] We heard she was dying last night, and 
I thought it no more than neighborly to inquire if you're 
digging her grave. 

Peter [with an attempt at indignation]. — Betsey Ann ! 
these things ain't to be laughed at, and made light of! 
I'm getting to be afraid she may actilly die one of these 
da}'s. 

Betsey [drawing down her mouth]. — It's barely pos- 
sible — folks do, now and then. Grandpa says, he never 
heard of anybody's sticking by the way. And there's 
one consolation, Mr. Doughty, if she should die 3^ou'll 
certainly be prepared for it. [Peter smiles.] 

Peter. - Betsey Ann [confidentially], Pm dreadful !put 
to it, to know what ails that woman — the pains shift 
so, there's no calculating on 'em. I've been reading 
lately some of these advertisements and things in the 
papers, and it sounds to me like a snake. 

Betsey. — Like a what? 

T*ft\r [lowering his voice]. — A snake. You know 



90 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

there is such a thing as clrinkin' 'em in water, and they 
are said to affect the mind ver}^ bad. 

Betsey — Oh, don't think of such dreadful horrors, 
Mr. Doughty ! You really make me shudder. It's the 
hypo that ails your wife, and not a snake. I don't 
wonder you get fidgety — anybody would, to live such a 
life as you do, poor man ! Good-bye ! 
{Exit Betsey Ann.~\ 

Peter. — I wonder what does make such odds in women 
folks ? Some as chirk as posies, and some as down at 
the heel as a frizzled-out potato ball. 
[Exit Scene."] 

Scene II. — Doughty's kitchen. Patience lying bolstered up 
on a lounge. 

[Peter appears at the door.] 

Patience [gasping]. — Come in here, Peter, for I'm 
dying — but don't you make tracks on my nice floor. I 
can't live two minutes, husband ! Oh ! oh ! [in a louder 
key.] Rub your feet on the mat. 

Peter. — I'm rubbin' 'em, dear ! [Enters and proceeds 
without dismay to mix a pitcher of molasses and water, 
vinegar and ginger — tasting the mixture to get the right 
proportions — then takes a twisted dough-nut from the 
cupboard and eats it — takes off his boots and steals like a 
cat to the couch.] 

Patience [raising herself on her elbow and looking at 
him.] — My dear ! [reproachfully as she sees a crumb on 
his coatsleeve] would / help nwself to doughnuts if you 
hadn't five minutes to live? [Peter wipes his mouth on 
his blue checked handkerchief and looks humble.] It's 
reasonable to su ppose [snuffing at the camphor bottle] 
that I can't hold out long. Take a towel, Peter, and tie 
up my head in a hard knot. [He obeys] Pull tight, for 
it's going to split. Now take the camphire in one hand 
and hold it to my right nostril, and the hartshorn in the 
other hand, and hold it to 1113' left nostril. Oh, dear ! 
Oh, dear ! [Peter obeys, putting the stoppers of the two 
bottles in his mouth.] And while you're doing that, if 
you could only soak my feet it would be a great relief 
The fact is, J need somebody to wait upon me, that 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 91 

knows how better than a man. You do the best you can, 
but I need — oh, oh such a spasm. 'Tis worse than death. 
Ah, Peter, little you know what it is to have one foot in 
the grave. I wish you could know! [Pause. Peter 
sighs.] I was perfectly speechless before you came in, 
and now I'm sure my voice doesn't sound at all natural. 
Don't it have a hollow sound, dear, as if it came from a 
distance ? 

Peter [unstopping his mouth']. — Yes, I don't know but 
what it does. I didn't think of it till you spoke, but now 
it strikes me your voice has a kind of a crack in it, like 
broken crockery-ware. 

Patience. — Did it ever sound so before, Peter ? Think 
quick ! 

Peter. — Well, I can't say certain. It was alwaj^s rather 
ha 'ash ; but now it's so uncommon loud, you know, and 
that makes it haa 'slier yet. 

Patience — Oh, yes ! oh, yes ! My right lung is 'most 
gone, Peter; and that's what I've been afraid of for some 
time. I felt a singular numbness in it — no feeling at all 
— that was the way I was taken speechless. The left one 
adheres to my side — you always knew that ; and now the 
right one is collapsed, and I might as well bid you good- 
bye. Husband, feel in my pocket, and take out my hand- 
kerchief. Yes, husband (with dirge-like voice], the time 
has come, when you will see my face no more ! We've 
jogged along together for fifteen years 

Peter. — And a half. 

Patience. — And what kind of a wife can you conscien- 
tiously say I've been to j t ou, Peter ? 

Peter. — As good as the common run [wiping his eyes 
where the tears ought to be]. 

Patience. — I've worn you about out with my ailings 
[taking a whiff of hartshorn] — I know I have. 

Peter [kindly]. — No, you haven't — there's a good deal 
left of me yev You've died so much nights, that it's made 
it rather bad sometimes in harvesting ; but, take it by the 
year together, I've generally got my sleep made up. 

Patience. — I shouldn't so much mind dying — for this 
is a miserable world — if it wasn't for leaving you, Peter. 

Peter [soothingly]. — Oh, don't you worry about that I 
I shall get along first-rate. 



92 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

Patience [groaning]. — You don't know what you're 
talking about, clear — you're so numb, about some things, 
so half awake like, Peter. Did ever I see such a man? 
[Peter looks condemned.'] You've always had me to do 
for you, and see to 3 T ou're mending, ungrateful as you are. 
A pretty sight you'll be, with your stockings down at the 
heel, and holes in your elbows ! But 't will be the same 
to you — you'll never think of the difference, but the neigh- 
bors will. [Patience groans. ] Besides, you'll make a poor, 
drozzling housekeeper, Peter. My best dishes will go to 
destruction ; and you'll stuff the broken windows with 
rags! [groans again.] You'll cook horrid messes; for 
you've had little experience in cooking, considering the 
sickness I've been subject to. And my floors — m}' nice 
floors, that the whole village says are such a beautiful 
sight — and my carpets, without speck or grease — where '11 
they be, in a year from this day ? Dirt here, dirt there, 
and the corners full of it. 

Peter [brightening and speaking in a cheery voice]. — 
Oh, well, I'll take the goose-wing, and dig into the cracks — 
so don't fret about that! And if you're not going to die 
for some hours, I might as well have my dinner going on, 
for 'twill soon be noon. I see there's cold potatoes and 
fish in the pantry, and I can chop a hash — so you turn 
over, dear, and try to go to sleep. 

Patience [screaming with rage]. — To sleep ! To sleep ! 
Just as if I could sleep in such distress as this ! Heat a 
piece of brown paper wet in vinegar, and clap it to my 
forehead ! And if I did feel the least disposition to even 
wink, do you think, Peter Doughty, I'd let you leave me, 
when it would certainly be my last sleep. [Peter brings 
the brown paper, and applies it with awkward fingers.] 
Now I'll finish what I was going to say [drops of vinegar 
course their way doiun her cheeks]. You'll certainly Lcve 
to marry again, Peter; but I know you'll never think of 
it, unless somebody puts the idea into your head. 

Peter [astonished]. — Oh, don't be foolish ! You've got 
on to a new tack, Patience. I've heard all the rest of your 
talk a hundred times over; but } r ou never said any thing 
before about another wife. 

Patience [weeping].—- It's because I never got wrought 
up to such a pitch before. But I seem to have had a vision 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 93 

of the state you 'II be in, and the ruinous condition of this 
house and furniture ; and it's been made clear to my mind 
that I ought to see you provided for before I go. It isn't 
as if I went without warning, Peter. And now I ask you, 
if it would be right for me to die, with my ej'es open, as 
it were, and not know of somebody that is going to take 
my place ? 

Peter. — It's a curious way you have of joking. Come, 
don't take on so ! Keep talking — for you cry harder when 
you' don't talk. 

Patience. — Answer me candidly, Peter. When you've 
seen me just alive so many times, have ,you ever, even for 
a moment, thought of anybody you'd like for a second 
wife ? 

Peter. — No, I never ! What an idea ! 

Patience [pleased']. — That's just like you, Peter, you 
never was any kind of a hand to look out for the future 
[groaning] • you've the poorest calculation in the world 
about preparing for a rainy day. 

Peter [in a deprecatory tone]. — I didn't know it was 
customary. 

Patience. — Well, it isn't generally, my dear. I'll 
admit that it isn't considered just the thing for a married 
man to be having his eye out for a second wife. But 
circumstances alters cases, Peter ; and as I said before, 
I'm astonished that you never went so far as to make a 
selection in your own mind. 

Peter [twirling his thumbs and looking very foolish]. — 
If you'd only given me a hint, you know, but you never 
said any thing about it. 

Patience [removing the brown paper from one eye, and 
peeping out at Peter]. — I've been more thoughtful for you 
than you've been for j'ourself; I've picked out Phebe 
Skill ings. 

Peter [alarmed]. — You don't say so ! Well, I '11 tell 
you what it is, Patience Doughty, folks say I'm hen- 
pecked, and I suppose I am henpecked ; but you won't 
make me marry that old Phebe Shillings if you stand 
over me with a horsewhip ! 

Patience- -Why, Peter, you needn't look so fierce. 
Who ever saw you look so crusty ? When I'm only sup- 
posing a case ! I haven't set my heart on Phebe, not by 



94 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

any manner of means. Only she does know how to 
wash tioors like a queen, and makes as good pie-crust 
with as little lard as ever I tasted ; I should feel safe to 
leave my dishes and furniture in her hands. And she'd 
dose you up beautifully, Peter ; she understands all 
kinds of cough mixtures and plasters. 

Peter. — Well, I'll do any thing in reason to please 
you, but I don't want to marry Phebe if there's any way 
of getting round it. 

Patience [considerately"]. — I shan't insist upon it, dear; 
hand me the comb and brush, Peter ; I suppose I shall 
have to see about getting dinner ; though I know I'm 
too weak to stand, and can't walk a step without fainting 
away. But, with regard to your marrying, I only insist 
upon one thing, and that is, that you look around and 
make your choice of some smart, capable girl ; and when 
the matter is decided let me know, for I shall die easier 
if it's all cut and dried ; I've lived through this spasm, 
it's true, but it's no sign I shall live through the next 
one. I shan't be with }^ou long, Peter. [Exit Scene.] 

Scene III. — Peter cutting potatoes alone. 

Peter [to himself], — What a curious woman Patience 
Smith Doughty is ! But I positively declare there's some 
sense in what she says. I should be the poorest hand in 
the world to get along alone. I shall miss her desper- 
ately that's a fact. I haven't known what it was to be in 
the house five minutes, without hearing her groan It 
comes about as natural as the ticking of the clock. 
Poor Patience ! But she's got to die, I suppose there's 
no doubt of that, sooner or later : and as these spasms 
keep growing worse and worse, I've no doubt she's 
nearer her end than she was a month ago. Says " I shan't 
be with you long, Peter." That sounds to me kind of 
prophetic. "I only insist upon one thing," says she, 
"and that is, that you look around and make your own 
choice of a smart, sensible girl," etc., etc. Now what 
would you do [looking at the potato he is cutting], if you 
was in my place? would you look 'round, or wouldn't 
you ? I never supposed it was customary ; but then, as 
Patience says, and Patience is a woman of judgment, 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 95 

"circumstances does alter cases." One thing is sure 
now, she's got the notion in her head, and I shan't hear 
the last of it for some time. Now there's Betsey Ann, 
but then she's so smart and perty, has been to boarding- 
school, can play on the piany, and all that sort of thing, 
I wonder if she would look at a plain fellow like me ? 
hardly think she would [sighs'] ; but then I might try 
Yes, I might just speak to her on the subject, so I might. 
It couldn't do any harm, and as Patience is so anxious 
about it I'll try. 

[Exit scene.'] 

Scene IV. — Mrs. Hastings'* parlor — Peter, in Sunday best, 
knocks at the door — Mrs. Hastings goes to the door. 

Peter [timidly]. — Can I see your daughter Betsey Ann 
a few minutes, alone ? 

Mrs H. — Certainly, Mr. Doughty. Walk into the 
back parlor ; I'll send her in. 

[Peter passes to opposite side of the stage. Mrs. H. 
calls " Betsey Ann," who enters.] 

Mrs. H. — Betsey, Mr. Doughty wishes to speak with 
you in private a few minutes. 

Betsey. — With me, mother ? -That is strange ! 

Mrs. H. — I must confess I have some curiosity to 
know what the man is after, in his new coat with the 
brass buttons. He looks so mysterious and so bashful 
too. His face is as pink as a sweet William. 

Betsey [gayly shaking her curls]. — Poor soul! most 
likely he has been reading some more quack advertise- 
ments, and would like to know my opinion in regard to 
snakes. Where's my fan ? I shall need it to screen 
my face when I laugh. [Miss Betsey approaches Peter. 
Mrs. H. retires.] Good-evening, Mr. Doughtj' ! How 
are you this fine evening and how is Mrs. Doughty 1 

Peter. — Poorly, very poorly! I mean never was 
better, that is to say I am — Miss Betsey Ann — that is to 
say, she isn't — in other words, failing fast, worse and 
worse, and more frequent 

Betsey [with a twinkle in her eye]. — I am very sorry, 
and very glad, that is to say distressed, that is I mean 
for her, and in other words rejoiced for you. 



96 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

Peter. — Yes, ma'am. I don't know about that 
[blushes], 

Betsey. — Lovely weather, Mr. Doughty 

Peter [examining the buttons on his coat]. — Yes, ma'am 1 

Betsey. — But we need rain ! 

Peter. — Yes, ma'am, rain. 

Betsey. — The river is very low. 

Peter. — The river is. Yes, ma'am. 

Betsey. — Quite dusty ! 

Peter. — What did you observe, ma'am ? 

Betsey. — Dusty, I said, quite dusty, Mr. Doughty ! 

Peter. — I don't exactly understand you, ma'am, that 
is, I don't so much as I ought to, perhaps. 

Betsey [laughing and screening her face with her fan]. 
— Fine weather, no rain, and too much dust. 

Peter [looks at the ceiling — turns and looks out the 
window]. — A very pretty evening out doors. [Balances 
himself on his heels and turns round with a jerk.] I 
thought whether or no, Miss Betsey 

Betsey. — Well, sir ! 



Peter. — I thought whether or no, Miss Betse}^- 



Betsey. — Very well, Mr. Doughty [Aside.] What 
can he want ! He'll keep me here two hours. I think 
my mother said you wished to see me, Mr. Doughty. 

Peter [with still redder cheeks, inserting the index 
finger between necktie and throat]. — Nothing, oh, nothing 
in particular, Miss Betsey. 

Betsey. — Ah, then it was a mistake of tier's — so you'll 
please excuse me if I leave you now, for I was intending 
to go out. 

Peter. — Stop, Miss Betsey ! won't you please to stop ! 
Does 3'our father wish to buy a cow ? 

Betsey.— Not that I know of. Shall I call him ? 

Peter. — Oh, no, not for the world ! I've got one to 
sell, one of the best kind, and I've been calcu latin' to 
turn her into another cow, and then beef her. Didn't 
know but your folks might like to trade. Dreadful rainy 
weather, Miss Betsey; never needed dust so much. And 
is your mother at home? And how's her health this 
summer? Give her my respects! Is Tommy pretty well, 
and how is his health I Is Johnny pretty well, and liuvv 
is his health? 

m2 18 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 97 

Betsey. — Take a seat, Mr. Doughty, and pray tell me 
what in the world you have on your mind. I'm ready to 
befriend you — indeed I am. Why are you so afraid of 
me ? Is there any thing I can do for you, or your wife ? 
You would like me to go and watch with Mrs. Doughty ? 

Peter. — Oh, no, no, not for the world ! She's past 
hope ! You're very kind, Miss Betsey, very kind, that's 
the general opinion, or I wouldn't have had the heart 
to come here to-night, for it's something that isn't cus- 
tomary, it certainly isn't, but I'm in hopes you'll under- 
stand that circumstances alters cases in all cases, that is, 
in my case, and won't take offence, Miss Betsey". 

Betsey. — No offence at all, Mr. Doughty. Indeed I 
can imagine what your errand is before you give it. 

Peter. — Can you though, Miss Betsey ? Well, that's 
clever. 

Betsey. — It concerns some of 3 T our poor wife's fancies. 

Peter. — Well, you are the quickest-witted girl I ever 
did see, considering I never said a word to a living soul, 
and you couldn't have guessed it from my actions. I'm 
very glad you understand my business, for I confess it's 
very unpleasant to me, and if it wasn't for the peculiar 
circumstances, I should certainly wait till she was dead. 

Betsey. — You take a very circuitous method of ex- 
pressing yourself, Mr. Doughty, but no doubt you wish 
to tell me that you have heard something new about 
snakes. 

Peter [crestfallen]. — I haven't the least idea, Miss 
Betsey, what snakes you refer to, and that is certainly 
not my object in coming, though I hope you'll give me 
time to collect m} r thoughts, for I am not good at speak- 
ing off-hand, Miss Betse}'. 

Betsey. — So I perceive, Mr. Doughty. 
[Profound silence.'] 

Peter. — Since I've been a-sittin' here I've been a- 
thinkin' — [silence again, save the tap of Betsey 1 s foot upon 
the carpet/] Since I've been a-sittin' here I've been a- 
thinkin'. [Silence.] Since I've been a-sittin' here. Miss 
Betse}^, I've been a-thinkin'. 

Betsey. — So I should judge. 

Peter. — I've been a-thinkin' what I should do for a 
second wife. 



98 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

Betsey [rising and facing him]- — Sir ! 

Peter [hurriedly]. — Patience won't be with me long. 
It's her dyin' wish that I should look 'round and make 
my ow. choice of some smart, capable girl, and when the 
matter is decided let her know, fur she'll die easier when 
it's all cut and dried. 

Betsey. — Peter — DouglnTy ! 

Peter. — She wanted me to look 'round, she didn't 
hamper me, and I did look 'round, and my choice fell on 
you. Now I want you to take time to think, for there 
ain't any hurry — none at all. 

Betsey. — Stop this minute, sir! I'm going to call my 
mother. 

Peter. — Wait a minute, for pity's sakes, Miss Betsey. 
I don't mean any harm, I don't expect you to marry me 
now, I'm only looking out for a rainy day. Think, Miss 
Betsey, there will be only ni3 r self and a neat little cotta ;- > 
free of all incumberances, for I'm well to do in the wor :.. 
if I say it myself. 

Betsey [laughing and crying hysterically]. — Pete-; 
Doughty, do you know you are an unprincipled, auda- 
cious scamp, a wicked Mormon, and an outrageous, un- 
mitigated idiot ! Sir, do you walk out of this house as 
fast as you can go, and never darken our doors again. 

Peter. — But, Miss Betsey 

Betsey. — Go this minute, and do you never offer your- 
self to any other woman till your wife is dead and buried 
in a Christian manner, which won't be in your day or 
mine, Peter Doughty. 

Peter [in a faltering voice]. — I guess } t ou don't look 
at in the right light. I wish 1 had stayed at home. 'Twill 
get into the papers — 'twill be spread all over town. 

Betsey. — No, sir ; do you think Elizabeth Ann Hastings 
hasn't pride enough to keep such a disgraceful proposal 
to herself? Why, you little simpleton, I've too much 
self-respect to tell it to my own mother ! 

Peter. — Say that again, Betsey Ann ! 

Betsey. — Here's my hand on it, Peter Doughty. And 
do you hold your feeble, stammering tongue a^ well. 
For if you ever tell a living soul what you've said to me 
to-night I '11 never forgive you as long as I live. 
[Curtain falls.] 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 99 

THE MISFORTUNE OF CIVIL WAR. 

CHARACTERS. 

Mr. Kayser, a blustering old gent. 
Mrs. Kayser. 
Miss Theodora Kayser. 
Biddy, a servant girl. 
Soldiers. 



Scene I. — Family circle — Mr. Kayser reading paper- 
Ladies engaged in sewing. 

Mr. K. — Indeed, wife, it is a matter of hourly congratu- 
lation to me that my inclination did not turn to public 
life. The public man is not permitted to make the least 
turn, without one of those prickly-pears of society cling- 
ing with bombastic vigor to his intentions. 

Mrs. K. — To whom do } t ou have reference, my love ? 

Mr. K. — To whom could I refer, if not to that abomi- 
nable class of persons, the reporters ? Your good sense 
should have discerned that, without any explanation. 
You are aware, my dear, that I am a man possessed of a 
remarkably easy disposition ; but even my temper could 
not withstand [ Theodora smiles] — What are you laughing 
at, girl ? 

Theo. — Nothing, papa — only my thoughts. 

Mr. K. — Very well. I say even I could not withstand 
the impudence of having my wife, or private property, dis- 
cussed in such a style of ownership, as it were. Listen, 
wife, to this [reads'] : " We are happy to announce the 
arrival of the able, noble and labor-loving General Slim- 
jack, of the Army of the Potomac. Our readers are well 
aware how nobly this gentleman has sacrificed health, 
home-comforts, and the society of his beautiful and amia- 
ble wife, to his country's cause, until his rapidly-failing 
strength has made it necessary to leave his laborious posi- 
tion for a time. We hope the tender nursing of his loving 
spouse will soon give him back a convalescent. The 



100 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

General's well-known abilities are such that his presence 
can illy be dispensed with at the present time. We wish 
him all the rest and enjoyment this short respite from 
duty can give — then welcome back to the field of glory !" 
[casting the paper aside. ~\ Such wordy palaver — it dis- 
gusts me ! I wonder how many baskets of champagne 
they expect for this 1 Oh, I thank my good sense that I 
am not a public man ! 

Mrs. K. — Such indelicate publicity is not enviable, cer- 
tainly, however one ma}^ enjo}^ popularity. 

Mr. K. — Can a man not be popular without becoming 
the helpless carcass in the claws of hankering buzzards ? 
Please to answer, madam ! 

Mrs. K. — If any one aspire to mount the ladder of celeb- 
rity, and the public tolerate them, why of course they 
belong, in a measure at least, to the grounds on which 
they trespass, and thus must expect to be subjected to 
the peculiarities of the birds that are at liberty to flap 
their wings in the field of the aspirer's labors, be it hawk 
or dove. 

Mr. K. — I do not accept the allegory, and still more, 
I do not choose to give them any such honorable name as 
birds. I will give you a figure that suits them better. 
The public is a mosquito, and the reporter is the blood- 
sucker, to be depended on to the same extent. They 
prepare to excoriate while they serenade you. Then, 
having gratified their momentary enthusiasm or desire, 
you may sink into silent oblivion, for all thej 7- care. They 
smell fresher game on the same road. They do not halt 
to bury the fame of the " old love," before they are on to 
the new ; they merely sting you to death, and leave the 
vultures finish the bad job. Such is public life. Away 
with the name — I'll none of it! 

Theo. — But, papa, think of the glory ! 

Mr. K. — Glory, indeed 1 You know nothing about the 
thing ! It is a fraud — a pit for youthful blood ! Glory 
is like sweetmeats. For instance, you over-dose yourself 
at the table of some good-natured grandmother — the result 
would be an unpleasant sensation about the region of the 
stomach— nausea, or something of the kind, would follow. 

Theo. — But, papa, I would be discreet, and not be 
greedy 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 101 

Mr. K. — Glory has no medium state — once get a taste 
of it and the craving leads you to the other extreme. 
Now mark the result of the sweetmeats — 'tis the same. 

Theo. — I think, however, I would risk the nausea 
rather than go through life a nobody. 

Mr. K. — Do you mean to tell me I am a nobody, Miss ? 

Theo. [rising and going to his side, taps him lovingly 
on the cheek. ] — I mean no such thing, you dear, good, 
bilious somebody. I intended to imply that I should 
like to become famous by achieving some great feat, con- 
quer some army, risk life or death in the performance of 
a duty that required unusual ability or courage — some 
thing more difficult than devouring sweetmeats ! 

Mr. K. — And then be lauded by the steam of human 
approbation to the seventh sphere of acknowledged 
merit, eh? 

Theo. — Why, yes ; I think I should like to be appre- 
ciated, else I should have no encouragement for still 
higher attempts. 

Mr. K. — Human nature will peep out. Well, I sup- 
pose it is natural for us to think more of the noise we 
make in the world than of the worthiness of the act itself. 
Praise is very sweet ; but, remember, child, honey is ex- 
cellent—still, it is gathered by the insect that has a vicious 
sting. 

Theo. — Do you think, papa, your simile is exactly ap- 
plicable? I don't think my greatness ever would bite 
any one. [Resumes her seat, laughing. ] 

Mr. K. — Miss Impudence presumes to question me! 
Really, wife, this is a fearful age, and this detestable war 
has not bettered matters. I rejoice I have no son, or 
lie would be advising me how to cast my vote, since 
my daughter would put ideas into her father's head. I 
thought it was quite enough, when, a few days since, she 
suggested to you a superior mode of making army shirts. 
Why, when we were children we would have hidden our 
brazen faces had we so far forgotten ourselves as to 
address our elders thus. 

Mrs. K. — I truly hope Theodora intended no disrespect ; 
however, we should remember, we progress with our 
years, and every year is more progressive than the last. 
and our children step in where we leave off; therefore we 



102 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

must not expect them to be what we were in our young 
days. Education is more liberal now than in those days 
of pay-schools and private tutors. Education is the bed 
of ideas, and ideas make forward brains. 

Mr. K. — Upon my soul, madam, has this war affected 
the women too ? Strange development of audacity 1 
Wives would lecture their husbands, and children would 
play the wise tyrant. [Rising and pacing the floor in- 
dignantly.'] I demand the respect that is my due as the 
head of the house. I do not choose to be reprimanded 
in the hearing of my child. Really, I do believe the 
dissenting fever is contagious. [Sits down, and drums 
impatiently on the table as Biddy enters.] 

Biddy. — Plase mum, there's a soger out here as wants 
to spake wid the mistiness. 

Mrs. K. — Is he begging? Give him something to eat. 

Biddy. — Sure, mum, it's a dainty beggur he is, then. I 
offered him a bit o' the chicken and a bit o' the purtata, 
and a bit of all that was left of the dinner, but the crathure 
is plased to ax for the misthress herself — the Jarsey can- 
nibal ! 

Mr. K. — Bring him in here. I will see the man. 

Biddy. —It's afeared he is o' the masther. He tould 
me to see the misthress ; her good heart would do better 
nor him. [ Aside.] An' that's a fact, troth ! 

Mr. K. [stamping angrily.] - Bring him to me, I sa}^. 
No more of your words ! 

Biddy [on leaving the room, aside]. — Oh, ye scolding- 
baste ! [Re-enter with soldier.] 

Mr. K Well, sir, am I a wild animal that 3^011 should 

fear me, or are you some prowling rascal, in soldier's 
clothes, trying to bamboozle the credulous hearts of 
women ? Speak ; don't stand there like a numskull. 

Biddy [aside]. — Ah, the brute to spake the like o' that 
to the poor young man. 

Sol. — I am neither a coward nor a rogue, sir ; but having 
heard of your lady's goodness, and being in need of 
rather peculiar advice and immediate aid. I ventured to 
call on her for assistance. 

Mr. K. — And who are you that presumes to ask aid of a 
strange lady ? Why not go to your kind ? Any gentleman 
would help you, if your distress is not associated with 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 103 

dishonor. Prove that first, and I will then listen to 
your story. 

Sol. —I can prove nothing at present, unless you are 
pleased to take my word on the honor of a gentleman. 

Mr. K. [laughing.'] — Hear you that, wife ? A " gentle- 
man!" and begging ! 

Sol. — Sir, although the would-be recipient of favors, 1 
am still free enough in manhood to ignore an uncalled- 
for insult. Even a gentleman may be placed in my posi- 
tion in these times of warfare and change, and especially 
a soldier should be free to ask a reasonable favor, and 
not be termed a beggar ! Time, in this instance, is life or 
death, sir. Good-day. [Turns to leave.] 

Mr. R. — Stay, stranger. One of " Uncle Sam's boys " 
shall never say he turned from my door unaided. Indeed, 
I was jesting. My intention was not to wound your self- 
respect. Biddy, you gaping mortal, do you not see the 
gentleman standing? 

Biddy [handing chair, aside]. — Theauld sinner cotched 
it that time, sure 1 

Mr. K. — Now be seated and tell me how we can be oi 
service to you. 

Sol. — Not to accept your apology would speak ill for 
my gentility. So, since I have your permission, I will 
speak direct to the point. There is in my company a 
little fellow of sixteen, who ran away from his home in 
the South, about a year ago ; he has been my messmate 
and bedfellow during this time, besides fighting at my 
side in two battles. We became so much attached to 
each other, owing to the lack of other companionship. 
There are few among our fellow-privates that have en- 
joyed educational advantages, or can recall genial home 
associations as we can ; thus, you see, we feel better to 
ourselves. I love him as a younger brother, and would 
sacrifice much to spare him trouble. Now, sir, being be- 
yond communication with my own home, I would ask of 
you to take and protect this boy for a few clays. 

Mrs. K. — Is he sick, poor child ? 

Sol. — I could almost wish he were. No, madam. We 
have, a short time since, received marching orders for the 
battle-field — to-morrow we engage with the enemy. But, 
through information gained this morning, he discovered 



104 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

that his father and two brothers are in the advance-guard 

of the opposing army. Unfortunately for him, our regi- 
ment is also ordered to the front. You see the predica- 
ment. The poor boy is nearly heart-broken. Our officers 
are too busy to pay attention to him, and say it is an 
excuse to skulk You will, indeed, be doing a humane act 
to protect him until after the excitement of the battle is 
over; then, by properly representing the matter to the 
militarjr authorities, he will be honorably discharged. 

Theo. — Oh, papa, how terrible, if he must go ! — perhaps 
be the death of one of them, or they may meet face to 
face in the fearful struggle. 

Mr. K. — Hasten, young man : he is welcome. I will 
keep him safe as if he were my own boy. But how will 
you get him here without being discovered ? 

Sol. — That advice I would ask of your wife — ladies 
always are quick in such matters. None are permitted 
to leave camp without an order — he will be suspected, 
were he to ask for one now. 

Mrs. K. - I have a plan. Have you a tent to yourself ? 

Sol. — Yes, madam— fortunately, we have not yet re- 
ceived orders to " strike tents." 

Mrs. K. — There is no time to be lost. Biddy shall go 
with you. A basket, containing fruit on the top, will 
conceal some female apparel — a sun-bonnet to cover his 
face. You must manage to dress him unseen — let him 
take the basket and walk away. 

Mr. K. — I have even a better plan. Biddy must take 
a friend with her, who will manage to disappear until the 
boy gets outside the camp. The guard will not know but 
the two coming out are the same that entered. The girl 
is safe enough. And thus there is no danger of discovery. 

Tiieo. — I will go in Biddy's place. It will save time, 
and also be known only to ourselves. While the boy and 
I walk out, she can be entertaining the soldiers in the 
vicinity. May I go ? 

Mr. K. — Yes — only hurry, before it is too late to effect 
the change. 

Scene II. — Discovering the family, in seeming composure, 
interrogating a sergeant and soldier, 

Mr. K. — Gentlemen, what means this intrusion ? 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 105 

Serg. — We have orders to search this house — we beg 
permission to proceed with our duty. A soldier lad has 
deserted from our regiment, and our superior officers have 
reason to believe him secreted here. 

Mr. K. — Tell your officers, my house is not a harbor for 
skulkers or cowards ! Wife, call your servants that these 
men may continue their search unmolested. [Mrs. K. 
leaves room — returns, followed by Biddy and colored girl.] 
Now, men, do your duty. To my best knowledge, the 
persons in this room are the only living creatures in my 
house — unless, indeed, you capture the cat or a mouse. 
[Men bow, and leave room.'] 

Theo. — Dinah, do you feel queerish ? 

Colored Girl. — Very chicken-hearted just now, Miss 
Kayser. 

Mrs. K. — Hush! listeners may be near. 

Mr. K. — Yes, this is a time of terror. This civil war — 
this breeder of strategy and deceit, poverty, and vice — 
nothing is sacred from its polluting influence. Why can- 
not nations leave this bickering ? It seems as if one gen- 
eration demanded revenge for the blood shed in that gone 
by ; and ere the swords have lost their traces of human 
gore, a new generation rises up, with its inheritance of 
strife, to dabble its hands in deadly conquest. [Enter 
sergeant.] Well, did you find your man ? 

Serg. — We have found nothing, sir ; but we have done 
our duty. [Bows himself out. Colored girl is suddenly in- 
spired — dances about the room — drops hoop-skirts and 
dress, discovers soldier-pants beneath — tears cloth from 
head, then steps in front of table, addressing Mr. and Mrs. 
Kayser solemnly.] 

Boy. — How can I thank you, sir, for thus befriending 
the boy, who would, otherwise, have been compelled to take 
up arms against his own blood — a loved father and dear 
brother. I know it is the duty of all to defend the na- 
tion's flag ; but, sir, I could not raise my gun against the 
man who gave me birth. I will think over the question 
when wiser years are added to my understanding. As 
yet, my heart says — first, God ; then the life that gave me 
life ; and then my country's flag 1 



106 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

"ALL THE COMFORTS OF A HOME." 

CHARACTERS. 

Miss Caroline Palaver, aet. forty years. 
Mrs. Palaver, somewhat decrepit — virago and mono- 
maniac. 
Mrs. Jinks, in search of board. 

Hattie Jinks, ) children of foregoing — nine and seven 
Willie Jinks, j years old respectively. 
Mr. Lightfoot, collector. 
Mrs. Pleasant, neighbor of the Palavers. 



Scene I. — A small room, plainly furnished — every thing old- 
fashioned and musty — Mrs. P., broom in one hand and 
duster in the other, " setting things to rights." 

Mrs. P. [adjusting ancient spectacles, and giving the 
snuff-stick in her mouth another rub.~] — Here I keep a- 
workin' and a-dustin' — a-workin' and a-dustin' — day in 
and day out — day in and day out — and I'm scarce able 
to do it — scarce able to do it [reaches up to straighten an 
old cloth stretched over a high-backed rocker to keep off 
dust]. Ugh ! my shoulder ! my shoulder ! That ruma- 
tiz in my shoulder ! I can't last long — I can't last long 
— and then she '11 be alone — and who knows who '11 have 
her money, the little she's got — always givin' away and 
givin' away to them Proud St. Church beggars ! And 
here I am a-workin' and a-workin', old as I am ! I'll tell 
'em — I'll tell 'em — how she uses me. I'll bring 'em here 
to see the bed I lie in — not fit for the dogs — the hussy, 
with all her pious, imperdent airs! [dusting a covered 
table, the legs tied up in papers.] No such tables now-a- 
clays! Mr. Palaver paid seventy-five dollars for that 
table — couldn't get it for that money these times. What 
do I get now ? The hypocrite 1 She hides eveiy thing from 
me. I'll know what she gets. Gives me nothing to eat 
but crusts. She shan't have these things of mine in the 
chest. I'll — I'll — [shaking head ominously] — I'll be the 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 107 

death of her yet ! Bah ! here I scrub and scrub [detect- 
ing a spot on the oil-cloth'] and who cares but to — [listen- 
ing — steps and a voice at the dooi — a rap — opens door and 
peers through — opens wider] — Come in ! Come in ! Just 
come in ! [quite genial.] Take a seat — take a seat now ! 
[to Mrs. J. and children entering.] 

Mrs. J. — Is this Miss Palaver ? 

Mrs. P.— You mean Cal'line — she's in — she's in ! [going 
to another door and calling] Cal'line ! Cal'line ! Come 
down ! Oh, take a seat, children. Such putty black eyes 
[looking admiringly at Willie's eyes, with a smile and 
movement of the head]. Black as coals ! H — m — m ! 
[seats herself, and folding her arms, surveys the visitors.] 

Mrs. J. — Your daughter, I suppose, takes pupils ? 

Mrs. P. — Sometimes she does — since the death of him 
— twelve years ago, she does a great deal — does Cal'line 
— teaches in Proud St. Sunday-school [going to the door 
and calling]. Cal'line ! Cal'line I do make a hurry ! 

Mrs. J. [going to wall to examine an ancient bead- 
worked sampler.] — Beautiful ! Beau — ti — ful ! 

Mrs. P. — Cal'line did that when she wan't no bigger 
than that one [pointing to Haitie]. She's worked a great 
many — giv' away I don't know how many. She used to 
make the finest shirts I ever seed— giv' 'em to her friends 
— 'most spiled her e3^es ! Them putty black eyes ! [look- 
ing at Willie, who turns away bashfully.] What's his 
name? 

Mrs. J.— Willie. 

Mrs. P. — Willie ? Such putty eyes ! the dear child ! 

[Door opens stealthily — Caroline enters, passes her 
hand over a scant, clinging dress, partially covered by a 
greasy old apron unaccountably patched — continues look- 
ing steadily at 3Irs. J. as she advances, and bows.] 

Caroline. — I ought to apologize for keeping you wait- 
ing, but I was combing my hair [combed very plainly down 
over her ears], when I heard mother call, and I didn't 
stop to change my dress. [Her lengthened face shortens 
in a semi-smile — gazes steadfastly — talks in slow mono- 
tone, without force, relieved by an occasional slow move- 
ment or gesture.] I really ought to be ashamed of my- 
self. I was quite busy in my room ; and since it is vaca- 
tion, I scarcely expected any visitor. We have very few 



108 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

visitors. Only our minister sometimes, or some pious 
person. T belong to the Proud Street Church. In fact, I 
have been a member almost from childhood. We live 
quite alone here — only mother and I— since father died. 

Mrs. J. [who has bowed, and said "Yes" many times 
during the foregoing.] — I heard you recommended, Miss 
Palaver, as a person to take children to teach and, per- 
haps, board. 

Caroline. — Yes, I have taught some since father died. 
I 

Mrs. P. [interrupting.'] — The way she was raised — so 
delicate — never has touched a finger to work — since the 
death of him — since the death of him — such pretty little 
white hands — but now [lost in reverie]. 

Caroline. — I have not found this place as good for a 
school as Broad street, where we used to live ; but since 
we have lived here in Gouge street, I have been prevailed 
upon to take a few clay-scholars. We have never taken 
children to board. We have sometimes taken a grown 
person or two, just for company. . Miss Skowhegan — she 
boarded with us three years — couldn't bear to leave. I 
know very little about this neighborhood. I never meddle 
with the affairs of others, and let them say what they 
please. We generally think we can judge for ourselves. 
I believe the only thing I ever did hear that was said 
against me was that I was proud, because I didn't visit 
my neighbors. Did you wish to secure board for your- 
self? 

Mrs. J. — Oh, no ! My husband is gone right smart 
He is on board of a vessel, and can get home only now 
and then. I board with my brother's family ; but I find 
their children in the way. I want to go into company 
considerable myself, and my brother has company often ; 
and when I heard of you I thought I would see if you 
tvould not board them. I am only twenty-eight, and find 
it too stupid sitting down to tend children. I never did 
care much for anybody's children ; and I know I don't 
think much of my own. I want them well cared for, and 
I will pay you what you charge, if it is not unreasonable. 
I want you to teach them and keep them away from other 
children. 

Caroline. — Well, I think, since we live in a plain, quic<i 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 109 

way, and would like a little care and company, that we 
will take them. I am very fond of little children myself. 
They seem so innocent ! I will take theni to Sunday- 
school — shall I ? [31rs. J nods assent.] And then their 
washing shall be done, and they shall be taught, and have 
good, plain, nourishing food, and every comfort of a home. 
I think, since every thing is so high, I must charge you 

[hesitating'] six dollars a week. That will cover the 

cost of tuition and every thing. And I will see that they 
want for nothing. 

Mrs. J. — Well, I can't have them with me, and I sup- 
pose I can't suit myself any better, nor provide for them 
any better — so I will pay you what you ask. My name 
is Jinks — I board at No. 37 Crooked street. You can ask 
Mr. Stokes, the lumber-merchant at the corner, whether 
I am responsible for the pay. 

Caroline. — Oh, I'm sure 3'ou are, or we shouldn't take 
them 1 When do you wish to have them begin ? 

Mrs. J. — I would like to go away to-day, and if you 
have no objection would leave them with you now. 

Caroline. — Very well — any time you please. 

Mrs. J. [to children.'] — Come here, dears ! Let me 
kiss you ! Be good children and do as Miss Caroline 
says, and perhaps next week I'll come and take you out 
to Aunt Fanny's with me. [Kisses them and rises to go.] 
There, dears ! I'll send their clothes clown this after- 
noon, Miss Palaver. Good-clay, ma'am ! [To Mrs. P.] 
Good-day 1 Good-bye, children ! [Exit.] 

Mrs. P. — Wa'nt that a quare woman ? What did she 
git married for ! Sich an onhuman way of doin' busi- 
ness! If I had 'tended 3-ou in that way, where would 
you have ben, I'd like to know, you mean, puling, whinin' 
wretch ! Curse the day you were ever born ! You 
needn't look at me so with them snaky eyes of your'n ! 
Stop — I say ! Stop 1 [Stamping violently.] 

Caroline. — Mother — mother ! You are talking loud ! 

Mrs. P. [talking loudly.] — Who are you, to correct 
your own mother that way ? 

Caroline. — I didn't mean any thing. I thought in 
nry own house I might just speak. I only mean to sug- 
gest — I think I am old enough to judge for myself. 

Mrs. P. — Hush ! with all your imperdence ! Stop look- 



110 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

ing at me so with your hypocritical airs ! Don't I hate 
you ! Just like that parson uncle of yours — that 
Methodist sneak who cheated me out of my inheritance ! 
Me, his own sister — me, that's seen better days than this 
— me, that never touched my lily hands to work — and look 
at 'em now— ugh! Me, that had the handsomest foot and 
the trimmest figger for miles 'round —me, that used to 
dance and sing for father's guests — father, the handsomest 
man that ever was ! Oh, that villain — that scoundrel ! 
Little good did it do him — died sitting in his chair at his 
own table ! [While she gesticulates and talks loudly 
Caroline tries to divert the wondering children by calling 
them to her, asking their names, taking off their hats, etc.'] 

Mrs. P. [dusting and soliloquizing.'] — And now she's 
brought this dirty baggage into the house — and who's 
to work for them ? Not me — not me ! Me, who am 
e'enamost gone ! She a-fixin' herself up with the mone}^ 
she gets and goin' to Proud street meetins and leavin' 
me here to work ! [Exit.] 

Caroline [to children]. — You mustn't notice what she 
says. She's an old lady. She's had a good bit of trouble. 
or thinks she has— and you mustn't provoke her. You 
must always clean your feet and step quietly and not 
talk loudly and ask me for what you want. I'll show 
you where I want you to sit and study and talk — and 
then after sundown, if it's pleasant, you may go and sit 
on the front door-steps and see the people go by. 

Hattie. — Can't we play any, or speak loud, Miss Car' 
line ? 

Caroline. — Yes — when you're good. Willie, do you 
know your letters ? 

Willie [lisping]. — No, ma'am — I geth I don't know 
nothin'. 

Caroline. — Well, come with me, children ! 

Mrs. P. [shouting as they pass through the door.]— 
Shut that door ! Don't you come out here trackin' ove. 
the floor ! 

Scene II. — Caroline sewing patchwork in a room almc. 
empty — Children on a hard bench trying to keep quiet. 

Hattie. — Miss Caroline, what makes you make me 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 111 

wear a thick veil over my face when I go to Sunday, 
school ? I haven't been out of doors hardly at all since 
I came here. I wish I didn't have to wear it. 

Caroline. — Why, child, I wear one myself. I want 
you to keep your skin fair and to walk like a lady. 

Hattie. — It makes me so hot I can hardly breathe. I 
don't think it's a bit nice. 

Caroline. — You shouldn't be giving your opinion 
about things till you are asked. You ought to be very 
thankful that any one takes such an interest in you. 
[ To Willie, wriggling in discomfort.'] Sit up there straight, 
Willie — like a gentleman ! 

Willie. — I don't like my papa muth ! He bringth me 
thingth sometimeth — but Mithter Button at the sthore 
uthed to give me a pieth of candy every day. Can't I 
have thomething to eat, Mith Car'line ? 

Caroline — You are not hungry — are 3 r ou? 

Willie — Yith I am — I am jitht ath hungry ath a 
bear! 

Hattie. — Can't we have just a piece ? 

Caroline. — Go and tell Mrs. Palaver that Miss Caro- 
line says you may have something to eat. Be very still ! 

[ They go out, and soon return crying, each with a bit of 
bread. Mrs. P. follows.'] 

Caroline [rising"]. — What is the matter? [Children 
cry.] Tell me 1 

Hattie. — Oh, Miss Car'line [boo-hoo] ! She got angry 
[boo-hoo], and beat me over the back ! \boo-hoo-hoo.] 

Mrs. P. — Don't }^ou come down agin a-botherin' me, 
and a-botherin' me, and beggin' for somethin' to eat — 
comin' down just after I cleaned the floor, and whinin' 
round, "somethin' to eat ! somethin' to eat !"— jest as if 
you didn't have a slice of liver apiece this mom in' and 
hoe-cake enough — and every mornin' too! And didn't 
you roll up the mat a-scuffln' round ? If you do it agin 
[raises hand menacingly]. 

Caroline. — Don't beat the child, mother ! 

Mrs. P. — Hush your imperdence ! Bring-in' such rub- 
bage into the house and a-makin' me do all the work and 
doin' not a thing yourself. [Seizes a poker.] Oh, you 
lyin', sneakin' thing ! I'll pay you ! [tries to grasp Caro- 
line's hair.] 



112 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

Caroline. — Don't, mother — don't, mother ! [half cry- 
ing'] don't pull my hair ! 

[Knock heard at outside door. Mrs. P. desists, and 
goes away muttering. Caroline re-arranges things and 
opens door.'] 

Mr. Lightfoot [entering]. — Good-morning, Miss Pala- 
ver ! It's the day for my call, I believe. 

Caroline. — Yes, sir. I am ready with the twelve dol- 
lars ; but, indeed, I think it's too much for poor women 
like us, with no one to provide for us. 

Lightfoot. — Mr. Lease is very lenient, I think, Miss. 
He has been offered fifteen a month several times. 

Caroline [handing money]. — I shouldn't think a rich 
man like him could think of asking more of me, because 
I'm an orphan with no father, or brother, or sister, and no 
protector. 

Lightfoot. — All right, Miss. Good-morning. [Exit.] 

Mrs. P. [re-entering.] — Cal'line, who was that ? 

Caroline.— Mr. Lightfoot— for the rent. 

Mrs. P. — Is he a-goin' to raise the rent this time ? 

Caroline. — He says Mr. Lease has been offered fifteen 
dollars. 

Mrs. P. — Mortal soul ! What does the old skinflint 
think ? Fifteen dollars for this old shell ! There I stand, 
day after day, in that nasty, smoky box of a kitchen, 
nearly choked to death ; and won't have the chimney 
fixed — no more mercy on the widder and the orphan ! 1 
wish I had him hung up in that chimney ! There he'd 
hang till doomsday — see how he'd like smoke I What's 
the matter, Cal'line? [who is holding her hand to her 
breast.] Speak- can ye? 

Caroline. — I have such a misery in my breast. 

Mks. P. — Misery ! Here I might be half dead with my 
shoulder, and crippled up as I am — who cares ? Not you 
a-leavin' every thin' for me to do — and I don't complain 
a bit — / never complain. 

Caroline — I didn't mean to complain, mother ; I only 
meant to answer your question. 

Mrs. P. — Go on — go on ! You never know when to 
stop — old as } t ou are and so aggravatin' ! 

Caroline. — I thought you asked me what was the 
n 19 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 113 

patter. I am sure I try to be unfeignedly thankful that 
I am so well as I am — I try to do 

Mrs. P. — Hear that ! Hear that — will ye ? Do stop 
that tongue of yours ! 

[Caroline takes children and exit. Jfr« P follows.'] 

Scene III. 

Caroline [sitting at table — broio knit — resting head 
upon hand']. — Oh, dear ! Oh, dear ! What shall I do ? 
What shall I do ? [closing her eyes devoutly.] This is a 
day of trouble — an orphan — no companion — nobody — 
nothing — only my little in the savings bank — all earned 
by my own labor and management since father died — and 
everybody bent on cheating me out of that! To be 
treated so in my own house, when I provide every thing, 
pay all the bills, and hold in from talking all I can so as 
not to cross her path. When father was here he could 
get away from it by leaving the house. And yet, pecu- 
liar as she is — strangely as she has always acted towards 
me — I should feel lonely without her in this cold, cruel 
world ! Yes, heartless — as I have found it to-day. In the 
first place, I thought that market man ought to exchange 
that five cent note, which I find is counterfeit. I took it 
of him when I bought the liver. I never get any other 
meat when I can help it — it is so nourishing — and I 
always get of him. When I asked him if a piece of 
meat that laid there was lamb, he was very short and 
crusty ; and when I asked him the difference between 
lamb and mutton, he laughed outright and said, u Why 
do they call the same girl at sixteen 'a tidy lass,' and at 
forty 'an old maid?'" I don't think that was any 
answer at all ; and when I told him I thought he ought 
not to defraud me of five cents just because I had no 
father, nor brother, nor sister, nor companion, nor protec- 
tor, and was an orphan, he only grinned the more, and 
said he guessed I was a nice old orphan, [rising and 
walking a moment or two — re-seats herself]. I shall not 
let those children go to the Proud St. excursion. Here 
they were sick last night because they ate too much, and 
I shall not trust them where I never have been myself — 
on cars or steamboat. I am always afraid of explosions 



114 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

Mother is angry yet because I was up with them. I can 
make it pay, or I wouldn't have them, of course. What 
would she say if she knew that that minister whom she 
hated so, not only did not pay his board, but borrowed 
forty dollars and tried to get my watch ? I am confident 
of it. Sing and pray as he did, too ! Well, if he can 
get to heaven with it, I am sure I can without it. I 
wonder why our last boarders left so suddenly. I pro- 
posed to include washing and lights for only twice w r hat 
I was getting. His partner didn't object — she only 
looked. They grumbled a bit, to be sure, when I 
couldn't make mother get breakfast till ten, or supper 
till late at night. I wish I could let that front room. 
Oh, dear ! Let me see if the paper has any advertise- 
ments I can answer [rising and looking for paper]. 

Mrs. P. {entering, mxdtering.] — A pretty lie ! A pretty 
lie ! Who ever heard of such a thino- ? The meddling 
huckster's busy-body of a wife ! [discovering Caroline, 
softens tone.'] Is it Cal'line ? I thought you were up- 
stairs. [Caroline passes quietly out, remaining just out- 
side. Mrs. P., arranging mantelpiece, continues.] She 
to dare to say I'm a neighborhood talk, and unless I stop 
scolding these children, there will be interference ! I did 
give them water to wash their hands. Who brings it all ? 
I should like to know what business it is of hern ? [loud 
rap at door — Caroline reappears — door suddenly opened] 

Mrs. J. [entering.] — Where are my children? 

Caroline [coolly and calmly]. — How do you do, Mrs. 
Jinks? How providential j^our calling is I I was just 
thinking I would so much like to have you come and see 
the children — they were so sick last night and have had 
to be quiet to-day. They w r ill be so glad to see you. 

Mrs. J. — And well they may. I wonder they are alive. 
Where are my children ? I ask you again [goes to outside 
door and calls the neighbor next door]. Mrs. Pleasant ! 
Mrs. Pleasant! Come in here a minute, will you ? 

Caruline [calls at inner door]. — Hattie ! Willie ! [lat- 
ter enter at same lime with Mrs. Pleasant.] 

Both children [rushing to mother and clinging lo her]. 
— Oh, ma — ma ! Do take us away from here ! Do — do 
—do! 

Hattie. — You don't know what an awful woman she 



POPULAK DIALOGUES 115 

[pointing to Mrs. Palaver] is ! She beats me and Willie, 
and scolds ns, and swears dreadfully ! # 

Willie. — We don't get any thing to eat, ma ! 

Caroline. — Why Hattie ! Why Willie ! What makes 
you talk so? Don't you love your grandma? Don't 
you love Miss Caroline ? 

Both [clinging to mother]. — No — no — we don't — we 
don't I Take us away, ma ! Do — do — do ! 

Mrs. J. — I don't care about having any words with 
either of you ; but you must know that I have learned 
from those who have seen and heard what kind of treat- 
ment my children have received at the hands of both of 
you! 

Caroline. — At my hands, Mrs. Jinks ? Why I couldn't 
have done more for them if they had been my own chil- 
dren ! Such care as I have taken of them — such a great 
responsibility ! You have surely been misinformed. 
Will you give me the name of the person who has told 
you? 

Mrs. Pleasant. — I will save Mrs. Jinks the trouble. 
I have been so worried by the treatment these poor chil- 
dren have had that I could endure it no longer, and I 
took means to inform their mother. 

Mrs. P. — So you're one of them gadding, dirty, mean, 
snivelling tell-tales, are you ? Goin' round from house to 
house with your pack of lies — you talkin' about your 
betters who have rid in their own carriage — can't attend 
to your own brats, the nuisances, but must be meddlin' 
with other folkses ! [Looking around for something.] 
You dirty, sassy critter — I'll teach you manners ! Git 
out of my house, you trollop — git out! [going towards 
her.] 

Caroline [interposing]. — Mother, mother ! Don't take 
on so ! It is our duty to bear this persecution. It is for 
some good end, if we can't see it. 

Mrs. P. — Oh, you cantin' sniveller ! You're in with 
'em too— are } t ou ! I'll fix you 1 I'll fix you ! Mind my 
words — I'll fix y ou ! [Exit in a rage, heard muttering in 
adjoining room.] 

Mrs. J. — I said I wanted no words with you, and I will 
have none. Bring the children's hats— oh, here the}' are ! 
[putting them on.] Here is your money [throwing it to 



116 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 



her"] —I'll send for their tilings within a half-hour. [Rising 
with Mrs. J?.~\ Come, my clears! I may not be all that 
a mother should be, but I am mother enough to take you 
out of this hole, even if you do enjoy all the comforts of 
a home! [Exeunt."] 

[Caroline heard sobbing loud — curtain falls.'] 




POPULAR DIALOGUES 117 

THE SUFFRAGE QUESTION. 

CHARACTERS. 
Prof. Fatrman. Dr. Thomas. 



Roo?n in private house. 

Dr. T. — Were }^ou serious, Professor, in that hurried 
chat we had the other day, when you stated that our 
American experiment of a republic must, as the case now 
stood, be regarded as a failure ? 

Prof. F. — Never more serious in my life, believe me, 
Doctor. 

Dr. T. — I have turned the matter over in my mind 
since, and examined it in every light in which I could 
place it, and I must confess that I cannot see sufficient 
reasons for agreeing with you. We are both at leisure 
for a while this evening. What say you to a talk on the 
subject? I am open to conviction. 

Prof. — Your proposal is accepted ; since, fortunately, 
we chance to belong to that rare class of disputants, 
who, if they cannot agree upon all points — and what 
thinkers can ? — can at least agree to disagree as gentle- 
men. So much my modesty allows me to say — nor will 
yours prevent your endorsing it. Your last remark 
brings to my mind a character, who shall be nameless 
here, who declared that he was perfectly willing to be 
convinced — perfectly willing — but nobody could convince 
him ! [laughing.'] Nothing personal, Doctor, I assure 
you. But to the topic in hand. Are you prepared to 
maintain that the Government of the United States, as 
at present constituted, is a republic ? Is it in reality, 
and more than in name ? 

Dr. — Do you mean to ask whether I consider our 
government to all intents and purposes republican ? 

Pkof. — I mean, is our government a government of 
the people by the people ? That is my definition of a 
republic. 

Dr. — Perhaps not in eveiy detail — but, certainly, for 
all practical purposes. That is to say, with a few amend- 



118 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

ments, it approaches probably as near such a form of 
government as is possible this side of Millenium — that 
good time coming. 

Prof. — Ah! then you admit that some things are 
necessary ? Of what nature, pray ? 

Dr. — The most important involves the question of 
suffrage. 

Prof.— Well ■ 

Dr. — I consider that we have made the elective fran- 
chise altogether too cheap an affair. To my view, we 
should, if it be possible, restrict the right of suffrage in- 
stead of extending it. 
Prof. — And how? 

Dr. — I would have suffrage based upon property and 
brains — that is to say, I think no one should be allowed 
to vote who has neither an interest in the government 
based upon the property which he owns and which is, to 
a great extent, dependent for its value upon the nature 
of that government, nor intelligence sufficient to appre- 
ciate the various questions which will of necessity arise 
connected with the administration of that government. 

Prof. — As to your first proposition — the property 
qualification — you would require a certain amount in 
fee, I suppose, of your voter ? 

Dr. - Yes ; not so large as to make an aristocracy of 
our voters, nor so trifling as to make the qualification 
merely nominal, like the payment of a poll-tax, for ex- 
ample, as is required in some States — which is so often 
paid by the party that wishes the particular individual's 
vote. The true mean between these extremes could be 
hit, I apprehend, if not at the outset, at least after re- 
peated experiments. 

Prof. — Granting that, how would you fix your stand- 
ard of intelligence ? 

Dr. — Why, in a country of free schools — where every 
one who will, can acquire, for almost nothing, a good 
English education — I should insist upon an ability to 
read and write — to read understanding^ such works as 
would enable the citizen to comprehend the outlines, I 
will say, of our Constitution — and write a hand which 
should be as legible as that of ordinary men. 
Prof. — Any other changes? 



POPULAB DIALOGUES 119 

Dr. — I think the period of probation required of for- 
eigners before admission to the rights of citizenship 
should be extended. 

Prof. — Take care, Doctor ! You are treading on dan- 
gerous ground now ! Well for you that these walls have 
no ears ! You haven't forgotten the recent experiment 
in that line ? " Up like a rocket — down like a stick !" 

Dr. — I understand you ; but I am none the less strenu- 
ous upon this point. Because bunglers initiate a good 
movement and fail — as they deserve — it is no ground for 
objection to renewing the same under better guidance. 

Pliop. — Would you lengthen the term of probation ? 

Dr — No — I should prefer the educational test — admit 
no man as a citizen who cannot meet the requirement I 
last indicated— to which should be added an ability to 
carry on ordinary conversation in our tongue. The latter, 
however, must, in a large majority of cases, be an inci- 
dental of the former. 

Prof. — You would apply this test even if the would-be 
voter came up to your standard, so far as property is 
concerned ? 

Dr. — Certainly. 

Prof. - Well— any others ? 

Dr. — None of importance, I believe. There are altera- 
tions involving minor considerations which might be ad- 
vantageously made, but the two which I have named 
would, in my judgment, tend directly to introduce the 
others. 

Prof. — Supposing these attained, your republic would 
be well afloat ? 

Dr. — Yes ; we should have a government in which 
every man, if he chose, could participate. If he could 
not secure the right to vote, either upon the property 
basis or the educational, the fault would assuredly be his 
own. So far as the latter is concerned, I should favor 
compulsory legislation — somewhat on the Prussian S3 r stem 
— requiring the attendance of all children, between cer- 
tain ages, at school for a definite time. 

Prof. — And this 3'ou would still call republican ? 

Dr. — Not in essence, probably, but in substantial re- 
sults. If we take the property of the childless rich man 
to provide facilities for the education of the children of 



120 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

the quiverful poor man, it seems to me that the very least 
which the State can do is to see to it that those facilities 
are made use of by those for whom they are furnished — 
especially as we take this property upon the ground that 
intelligence is necessary to the existence of a republican 
form of government. 

Prof. — Perhaps we should not disagree as to that 
under any form of government ; but the question leads 
us somewhat outside of the record. When you said, a 
moment ago, that every man could, if he chose, partici- 
pate in such a government, did you intend to make no 
discrimination regarding color ? 

Dr. — None whatever. 

Prof. — Then you have no horror touching the negroes 
voting ? 

Dr. — Not if my tests are met. 

Prof. — But, is that treating these "wards of the 
nation" — as the blacks have been so happily termed — is 
that treating them with the justice that they have a right 
to expect from us ? 

Dr. — And why not ? 

Prof. — They fought for us when most we needed them. 
In consideration of such assistance, and as a means to an 
end we all desired to attain, we emancipated them. Now, 
the war over, they are left — the large majority of them — 
among former masters. There they must remain — there 
they undoubtedly prefer to remain. Under your plan 
very few of the adults can secure a vote. They will be 
compelled to wait until their children reach the age of 
manhood before they can even indirectly be assisted by 
the ballot. It seems to me, that by so dealing with them, 
the government would act with the grossest injustice. 
While claiming from them allegiance, taxes, and military 
service as citizens of the United States — a title which we 
have bestowed upon them in the most formal and solemn 
manner by express enactment — with their services for 
the cause of good government, as we termed it, fresh 
in our memory — we do yet, by adopting your plan, deny 
to the active, efficient, working men among them, the 
very ones, in hundreds of instances, whose good right 
arms helped us hew our way out of difficulty — that se- 
curity for person and property which every government 
n2 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 121 

in Christendom is bound to assure to its meanest citizen, 
or forever relinquish all pretensions to the designation of 
a government. 

Dr. — I believe that every thing which the ballot would 
do for the blacks in the way of comfort and security, if 
they could have it at once, would be as effectually done 
by the certainty that they are to have it whenever they 
choose. I think this very course would act as an incen- 
tive to efforts which would never be made were the fran- 
chise to be given at once, unconditionally, into their 
immediate possession. From my familiarity with the 
negroes, I am confident that a greater proportion of the 
adults among them would make themselves able to stand 
the educational test — and in a shorter time — than of the 
adults of any other race among us — certainly than the 
Irish, the most dangerous element, taken as a mass, with 
which we have to deal. 

Prof. — Possibly 3 T our views maybe correct ; but I still 
think that justice demands that we give all the blacks the 
ballot at once. They will, beyond question, at times 
misuse it. Who of us whites does not ? And how many 
of us all the time ? Yet, if they have the right to vote 
and vote against their own interests, they would soon 
see that themselves alone were blameable and the evil 
would, before long, correct itseif. 

Dr. — That might be. Did the question stand alone I 
should be disposed to make trial, perhaps, of the franchise 
among them at once ; but I believe the time has come — 
and for the first time in our history as a nation — when 
we can make voting depend upon ability to vote intelli- 
gently So believing, I am anxious to introduce the 
test ; and that, although I know that many excrescences 
and anomalies will thereby become apparent, and that 
injustice will in some instances be done. We cannot, of 
course, deprive the ignorant, uneducated, landless mass 
of voters, who are entitled to vote under existing laws 
of that right — and this will prove, for many years, a 
grievous trouble ; yet a beginning must be made some- 
where, and the lines of demarcation drawn distinctly. 
Time will rectify every thing. And I fear if we allow 
the present opportunity to slip through our lingers, so 
good a one may never agaiii be offered us 



122 TOPULAR DIALOGUES 

. Prof. — T reserve what might be said on that point fol 
another stage of our discussion. Just now for something 
crucial. When you say every man, do you include woman 
under that general term ? 

Dr. — Only so far as she is represented by man. 

Prof. — As I supposed. Then you would not give the 
right of franchise to her ? 

Dr — By no means. I am aware of the drift of your 
questioning. But I am ready to meet the issue now 
fairly 

Prof. — No doubt of that, Doctor; I am all attention. 
Why would you exclude woman from all share in the 
government of your revised republic ? 

Dr. — In the first place, I deny the premise universall} T , 
I believe, laid down by the advocates of female suffrage, 
who start with the proposition that the right of suffrage 
is a natural right, like that of life, of liberty, of property 
and the like. 

Prof. — One moment, if you please. Do } t ou class the 
right of government — that is, of forming political asso- 
ciations to govern and to be governed — as among natural 
rights ? 

Dr. — Certainly. But not the right of voting for a 
representative under any form of government ; since this 
very representative government does not spring directly 
from the nature of man. The right of suffrage I assert 
to be, solely and exclusively, a political right, to which 
Providence has led man in the progressive course of 
history. 

Prof. — I may be very obtuse, Doctor ; but it is clear to 
my mind, that if the right of government is a natural 
right, it follows, as an inevitable corollary, that the right 
of each individual to have a voice in reference to that 
government — in other words, each individual's right to 
suffrage — is as fully and completel}' a natural, and not a 
political, right. Taking any other view, 3'our natural 
right of government resolves itself— so far as the indi- 
vidual is concerned —into merely a right to be governed 

Dr. — I fail to see that your corollary follows. To my 
mind, there is a very marked distinction between the two 
classes of rights. But I must object to being kept upon 
the offensive longer, as I have been thus far during our 



rOPULAH DIALOGUES 123 

discussion. "Turn about is fair play." Open, if you 
please, Professor, with your arguments in favor of female 
suffrage. 

Prof. — Shall we consider the natural rights question 
settled ? 

Dr. — Yes — for the present. 

Prof. — And as I put it ? 

Dr. — No — no — by no means ! But let me hear from 
3^011 why woman should be allowed to vote. 

Prof. — One reason, of weight with me, is, that the 
withholding of suffrage from her is a degradation of the 
sex which we are wont to laud most highly. 

Dr. — No more than women are degraded in those 
monarchies in which no princess can ascend the throne. 
In England, even ; since she can there ascend the throne 
only when no brothers, even younger than herself, are left 
to wear the crown. 

Prof. — Well — that does not meet my position. Because 
the degradation is no more marked in the case I put, than 
in the case put by yourself, I fail to see that my allega- 
tion is disproved. 

Dr. — But a political law regulates the succession, and 
no degradation follows. 

Prof. — Why not under a political law, as well as under 
a natural law ? Pardon me — but isn't a good friend of 
mine just now busying himself in an occupation which we 
used to call at school " begging the question ?" 

Dr. — Go on with your arguments. A truce to badinage ! 

Prof. — If she cannot vote, she is not represented. 

Dr — Indeed, she is — by her husband, her father, or her 
brother. 

Prof — But the votes of none of these may be depos- 
ited in consonance with her wishes. 

Dr. — Still she is represented. You overlook woman's 
true place in society, which is that of a member of a 
family. As such member, the head of that family repre- 
sents her. 

Prof. — Would you be content to have this species of 
representation carried as far as analogy would show ? 
Should, for instance, the father of a family represent by 
his vote his wife and all of his children, even after the 
sons have reached adult years? 



124 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

Dr. — I can see no necessity for that. 

Prof. — But this theory of representation, when pushed 
to logical results, inevitably leads to it. Waiving this — 
giving the right of voting to woman would highly improve 
and refine our elections, and not unwoman her. 

Dr. — There I disagree with you wholly. The division 
of labor— the very foundation of our whole economy — 
begins with the division of the sexes, and expands as a 
physiological distribution of employment, pursuits, and 
social relations. 

Prof. — Well ! If women are in fact represented at 
present, they are, as a class, represented by men as a 
class. Now, no class can ever really be represented by 
another; and the distinction between the sexes forms a 
distinction of class which no family ties can do away with. 

Dr. — According to this distribution, the political occu- 
pation ought not to be assumed by women, by parity of 
reasoning. 

Prof. — Ah ! Then the Indian is justified in reaching 
the conclusion that, inasmuch as men are physically fitted 
for adventurous occupation, hunting and war, all other 
work — all that is tiresome, degrading, uninteresting — 
falls naturally to women. Your argument is simply 
this : in the division of labor, beginning with the division 
of the sexes, is included a right on the part of men to 
draw the division where they please and to declare that 
their line is the line which Providence has drawn. 

Dr. — Woman, to my mind, exercises and ought to 
exercise much of this beneficial influence by her delicacy 
and modesty ; and her legitimate influence in the proper 
sphere would be lost, were she to enter the arena of 
politics. 

Prof. — I am of the opinion that the only way to give 
full play to the natural distinction between the sexes, is 
to place men and women on a footing of absolute social 
equality, which is impossible without political equality. 

Dr.— Would you have a woman vote by mere impulse 
and feeling, or is she to visit public meetings? What 
respectable man would wish his wife, his daughter, his 
mother, or his sister to do this ? 

Prof. — Prejudice has nothing to do with this question, 
which is one of justice and expediency alone. As the 



POPULAR DIALOGUES l25 

experiment has never yet been sufficiently tried, it is, 
takiDg the most cautious view, just possible that woman's 
influence in politics might be as great as the influence of 
politics on woman. 

Dr. — Probably at present her vote would be cast — 
that is, that of the majorit}^ — aright ; but we must look to 
the future, when this public action, this understood de- 
parture from woman's true sphere, shall be carried out 
into all its inevitable results. 

Prof. — I have no such outlook, not being a believer in 
progress backwards. 

Dr. — But women do have an influence at present — a 
great influence, in many cases, upon the votes of the 
other sex. Why not encourage her to develop that in- 
fluence to the fullest extent ? 

Prof. — This influence, as now existing, is power with- 
out the sense of responsibility. Admitting, as you do, 
the influence of woman over the mind of man, I appeal 
to you, Doctor, whether it is not better that woman 
should be taught by the privilege of the ballot that they, 
no less than men, are responsible for the rational use of 
whatever power Providence has placed in their hands. 

Dr — Your manner of stating this question is, certainty, 
somewhat new to me, and, I grant you, deserving of 
serious consideration. And yet, granting the force of 
your arguments, I doubt much whether I can rid myself 
of the mountain of prejudice which, I will admit, rests 
upon me in connection with the subject. I do not deny 
that this ought not so to be — but that such is the fact, I 
frankly avow. 

Prof. — I do not doubt that the same avowal would be 
made by the large majorit}^ of those who at present decry 
female suffrage, if they were as frank as yourself. One 
of the strongest indications of increasing civilization, as 
I regard it, is the growing disposition shown of late to 
examine this subject dispassionately. Few sensible men 
now attempt to sniff or sneer the question down. 

Dr. — But, Professor, how would you like to have a 
female President, and what would it lead to ? 

Prof. — Don't press me too closely there, else I may be 
forced into saying some things which might be construed 
into speaking evil of some of the dignitaries of our own 



1 26 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

sex whom we have had in that position — which may pure 
patriotism forefend ! 

Dr. —Then you favor universal suffrage ? 

Prof. — Yes, if we are to continue to call our govern- 
ment a republic. 

Dr. — It is solely because I see the disastrous results of 
our present approximation to universal suffrage that I 
favor the restriction of it, for which I have been contend' 
iug with you. 

Prof. — But the experiment of a republic can never be 
fairly made without it. For myself, I entertain grave 
doubts as to the success of the experiment ; but from the 
teachings of such a trial we shall, even if we fail, be 
better able to construct a system of government adapted 
to our needs and capacities. Theoretically speaking, 
universal suffrage should have a stimulating effect upon 
the popular mind. No part of the people should be left 
in an unhealthy state of indifference to political contests 
in which they can take no practical part. The activity 
of mind produced by an exciting election is an educating 
power of immense value. It is idle to suppose that any 
classes, if intrusted with the exclusive power of govern- 
ment, will care so well for the excluded classes as to com- 
pensate for the natural stagnation of mind among the 
latter. But my time is up [looking at watch']. 

Dr. — I will think a while, Professor, and call this up 
again when we are disengaged. I must understand that 
you do not fall in with my views of a republic ? 

Prof. — You sketch me no republic — neither, on the one 
hand, the republic in which Hamilton and his adherents 
believed, nor, on the other, that which Jefferson and his 
school hold up to view. The truth is, all of us in theo- 
rizing S3'stems of governments so color them with our 
preconceived notions, that, when they are finished and 
ready for operation, the}' might as well be labelled by 
one name as another. Your republic of to-day, now, 
Doctor, is, in effect, an oligarchy, an aristocracy, or a 
plutocracy — or, perhaps better, a compound of all. At 
all events, it bears no more resemblance to the ideal re- 
public of theorizers than the horse which Baron Mun- 
chausen started with did to the horse which he drove 
back. 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 127 

Dr. — How was that ? 

Prof. — The baron was attacked by a wolf. Fortunately 
he succeeded in creating a diversion from himself to his 
horse. The wolf began eating the unfortunate animal 
at the tail, and ate with such voracity that the Baron, 
taking advantage of the right moment, was able to drive 
home with the wolf harnessed inside the skin of his 
horse I 

[Curtain falls.'] 



JACK AT ALL TRADES. 

CHARACTERS. 

Samuel Steady. Thomas Flyaway 



Room in a private house. 

Steady. — Let me see, Tom — how long is it since I've 
seen you? [Meditating.'] Twenty years, as I'm living! 
Who would have thought it ? I remember the last shake 
of the hand you gave me on the wharf. I was going to 
Montevideo, you know, for Leatherman & Co. Do 3 7 ou 
mind your parting advice to me? I told you I was 
going into the leather and tallow business. " Good-bye, 
Sam, old chum," said } T ou, " life's a big game ; but the 
game for you in life is the game of hide and seek!" 

Flyaway. — Well, Sam, from all that I can see and 
hear 3 r ou followed my advice very faithfully. Here you 
are comfortably located — name down among the big tax- 
payers of the city — President of one Life Insurance 
Company and director of I don't know how many Fire 
dittos, saying nothing of the like relation to a dozen or 
less heavy banking institutions — house in town, brown 
stone, swell front and trimmings — country seat with all 
the modern improvements, and luckily money enough to 
make it impossible for the fancy poultry and the blooded 
stock of the gardener and the manager to eat out your 



128 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

core ! Egad, your nest is comfortably feathered, old 
chum ! You played the game well, I grant you. I didn't 
dream for an instant, though, that you'd take my advice 
so literally. Now, candidly, Sam, what man in college 
would have bet on your head against mine for success in 
the world? Not one; and you know it. Don't imagine 
though, that I regret the hit you've made. I'm glad of 
it, m}' boy. You deserve it all, and more. You've 
always been a hard-working, persevering, stick-and-hang 
fellow; and I must say that Dame Fortune would have 
been a sorry jade not to look at you with a kindly eye. 
Over and beyond that, Sam, you have about % you what most 
of those fellows of your crowd lack — a good heart, sound 
to the core. But, really, chum, isn't it strange how col- 
lege calculations miscarry ? 

Steady. — Partly so, and partly not. You mustn't for- 
get, Tom, that we are, the most of us, somewhat callow 
at that era in our lives ; and, at the time these calcula- 
tions of which you speak are made, we live in a very 
small world — a world, too, which is by no means the real 
world in miniature — not capable of playing the part of 
microcosm to our macrocosm, as Waldo Bonner would 
have said in those days. 

Flyaway. — Waldo Bonner! I declare I'd nearly for- 
gotten him— the valedictorian of our class, too ! What's 
become of him, besides the fact that he is D. D , and has 
written a score of treatises to establish the willingness 
of the human will or the divinity of deity ? 

Steady. — Nothing of the kind, Tom. The last I heard 
of W r al, he was cashier in a hoop-skirt store. 

Flyaway [laughing'] — That poses me ! But it's only 
one illustration out of a hundred which might be selected 
of the grand mistakes which smart college youths make 
when they attempt to locate each other according to their 
ideas of the eternal fitness of things. You remember 
Bumpus, of course — class ahead of ours — the clumsiest 
clown in the whole college — Terrapin we used to call him ? 
Now what do 3^ou suppose he betook himself to ? 

Steady. — Teaching dancing? 

Flyaway. — He might as well as to figure as Principal 
of a Young Ladies' Boarding School. It seems, however, 
that that was his forte, for he has made money at it. 

20 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 129 

Think of Terrapin as Professor of Accomplishments and 
Graces ! \_Bot~h laugh.'] 

Steady. — Little Bartleby — Tom-tit, you know — after 
having had soma half dozen duels— he was editor-in-chief 
and fighting editor of some tearing journal in the South- 
west — died a year before the war from a bullet received 
in a street encounter. The meekest, quietest, most inof- 
fensive little chick in the whole college ! 

Flyaway. — Scrubb, too, who would appropriate every 
thing to which he could lay his hands — " convey the wise 
it call " — who was disgraced by his society for passing 
off some Scotch Dominie's production as his own — he is 
a leading and influential I). D. in one of the western 
metropolises, and is really doing a deal of good. 

Steady. — Here is Everman— class below — if ever man 
seemed predestinated for a foreign missionary it was he. 
What is he now ? Here in town, one of the most ingeni- 
ous and technical of criminal lawyers — very few Acts of 
the Legislature bearing upon crimes and their punish- 
ment that he can't drive his double team through. It's 
a queer world, Tom, this of ours ! Circumstances seem 
to do so much and ourselves so little. The contradictions 
we meetTin life cannot occur by chance — there must be 
some law governing them ; but for me, I confess I know 
nothing of it, can shape nothing in imagination which 
will account for it, though I've bothered myself times 
without number with the attempt. 

Flyaway.— A mercantile moralizer, Sam I Will that 
pass on 'change ? 

Steady. — One can't help thinking, } t ou know ; and I 
see no reason whj r one shouldn't wander at times outside 
his own particular calling. " Once a huckster always a 
huckster," is one of those maxims which have more of 
sound than substance — truth sacrificed to a jingle. There 
is no more necessity for one who is engaged in mercan- 
tile life being so devoted to his business that he can think 
of nothing else than, as Sam Johnson puts it, for the 
driver of fat oxen to be himself fat. Now, to come home, 
chum — take your own case ; I've heard of you from time 
to time, here and there, roaming up and down this land 
and other lands, a very Wandering Jew ; and I have 
questioned for many an hour how it could be so. We 



130 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

used to talk the future over, you know, so often in No 
21 Middle Hall. I've stuck to my text, while you 

Flyaway. am nearly through with my sermon ! 

Steady. — You've been tossed in sucli a sea of unrest 
that I wouldn't have believed it possible for you to sit 
and chat with me as long as we've been together now. 
It wouldn't have surprised me in the least, when I met 
you on the street yesterday, if you'd just shaken hand 
and said " Good-bj^e, Sam — excuse me this morning — I've 
an engagement in Sitka !" 

Flyaway. — I'm settling down now, Sam. 

Steady. — We '11 see — then I'll believe. But didn't I 
see your name in the newspapers, an administration or 
two ago, in connection with a good foreign appoint- 
ment ? 

Flyaway. — I reckon. I saw it myself — received con- 
gratulatory letters with requests to give friends a lift- 
read a veiy complimentary notice in a paper to which I 
had contributed. 

Steady. — And there was nothing in it after all ? 

Flyaway. — Not for me — some better man got it. You 
see there was a little mistake made by the agent of the 
Associated Press. The lucky dog's name was Scud, of 
whom nobody had ever heard ; and as it so much resem- 
bled mine, of whom some little had reached the ears of 

political quid mines, I received the appointment in 

the newspapers. 

Steady. — Now, Tom, you know all the salient points 
in my career, while I am pretty much in the dark as to 
your own. Enlighten me. Why haven't you succeeded ? 

Flyaway. — But I have. 

Steady. — In what, pray ? 

Flyaway. — In accomplishing nothing. But you want 
the points. You shall have them. 1 didn't take the 
valedictory at graduation, 3^011 know, although it was def- 
initely settled in the class two weeks after I entered 
freshman that I was to have it in due course of time. 

Steady.— And so you might, if you had held to your 
work. 

Flyaway. — There's your mistake, Sam. I did hold to 
my work, but couldn't hold to theirs. Preferred miscel- 
laneous reading to the differential and integral calculus, 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 131 

and so obtained a dissertation, or disquisition, or some- 
thing of the kind — do you remember the name, Sam ? 
It is the only commencement that I ever assisted at. At 
all events, it wasn't the valedictory. Well, I was to read 
law. As my luck would have it, a slight obstacle inter- 
vened— pater familias wouldn't furnish the funds. 

Steady. — Why so ? I thought you were the apple of 
his eye. 

Flyaway. — And so I was — but, mark you, of his eye. 
My visual organs were allowed but small play. Fact is, 
he had selected an entirely different calling for me. 
Other people can judge so much better than you can 
yourself as to what you're adapted for. That is why I 
was to learn manufacturing and become a cotton million- 
naire. 

Steady. — I never should have attempted to manufac- 
ture a business man out of you. 

Flyaway. — That shows your ignorance, Sam. Hadn't 
father succeeded as a manufacturer? Didn't I look just 
like him ? Then why shouldn't I succeed in the same 
business ? The reasoning, you will perceive, is unanswer- 
able. 

Steady. — But, surely, you didn't start in that business, 
Tom ? A turtle would make as good a metaphysician. 

Flyaway. — Rather faulty that simile, Sam. The" turtle, 
you'll observe, keeps his head to himself for the most 
part — never thrusts it into the world, unless some advan- 
tage is to be gained by it. Why not a good metaphysi- 
cian, then ? No, I didn't go into manufacturing — except 
sundry and divers reasons, why that business wouldn't 
suit me. They amounted to nothing, of course ; but the 
result was that the family copartnership was dissolved, 
and I took up Blackstone, trusting to chances. As soon 
as possible I was admitted to the bar — hung out my 
shingle - and attempted to practice for a 3 T ear or two. 

Steady. — JS T o longer ? Didn't you succeed ? 

Flyaway. — To be sure I did. What a question ! Wasn't 
I declared by nearly all my seniors to be the most prom- 
ising young man at the bar ? So, in fact, I was — and it 
was precisely that which troubled me. 

Steady. — How so ? 

Flyaway. — I promised altogether too much for my 



132 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

comfort. It was the old story —debts and duns. Anno3 T ed 
past longer endurance, I cast about me for some emplo} r - 
ment in which I might turn those talents, which every- 
body declared I possessed in such abundance, to some 
account. Naturally enough, I took to teaching. 

Steady. — You ! A pedagogue ! 

Flyaway. — Precisely; and I may say, without undue 
vanity, that I acquired some little reputation in that de- 
lightful calling. 

Steady. — Delightful ! If there be a dog's life led by 
any human being on earth, it is the life of a school-teacher. 

Flyaway. — Your ignorance again, Sam. There is no 
occupation in which you can cover over so large a surface 
with so small an amount of brains — in the South, especially. 
Why I was a professor of ancient languages in a leading 
university in that section ! No — you may abuse teaching 
as much as you like ; but I assure you that few situations 
are more comfortable than that of the master of a popular 
school, with a good salary attached, provided }^ou manage 
your cards right. There's Roper, now, of the class be- 
low 

Steady. — That time-server ! He never had an unselfish 
emotion in his life ! 

Flyaway. — All the better for his business, Sam ! He 
has been for some time at the head of one of the most 
flourishing institutions in the country - receives, I think, 
the biggest salary paid to any public-school teacher. He 
had no trouble in making headway after he once got into 
the right track. At first, what were supposed to be his 
religious views prevented advancement ; but, as soon as 
he comprehended the necessities of his position, he bravely 
rid himself of that incumbrance — and presto ! the thing 
was done. Roper is now editor-in-chief of a leading edu- 
cational journal - President of a State Teachers' Associa- 
tion — an acceptable lecturer at all education gatherings — 
has revised several German and Sanscrit works on educa- 
tional topics 

Steady. — What does he know about those tongues ? 

Flyaway. — Pooh, man! What difference does that 
make ? More than all, be is editor of a very popular series 
of classical school-books, which brings him in a handsome 
sum. lie has one of the best libraries in the States- -all 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 133 

secured by writing puffs for publishers ; married one of 
his pupils, an heiress ; in short, is, every way considered, 
an ornament to society and a comfort to himself With 
this before you, disparage teaching, will you ? 

Steady. — How happened it, then, that you didn't tarry 
in such a pleasant tabernacle, Tom ? 

Flyaway. — That is a question which I have not even 
yet settled to my entire satisfaction. I either knew too 
little or too much - can't say which. The truth is, I never 
could assume a virtue which I didn't possess. I'll anti- 
cipate you, Sam ; you needn't say that is because I never 
was familiar enough with virtue to make a successful 
counterfeiter. However that may be, such is the fact. 
This embarrassed me sadly at times. There are one or 
two branches which I feel nrvself somewhat competent to 
teach — no more. There are others in which I could act 
the smatterer's part ; and still others in which I am a 
very ignoramus, and for which I haven't predilection 
sufficient to sustain myself while booking up in them. 
Now, as principal of a modern school, you are supposed 
able to instruct in all branches, no matter what your 
salary, " all the virtues " — as Cobbett said of the British 
soldier — "are expected for a shilling a day." I suppose 
I was too frank in such matters. Had I been a better 
man, I should have remained silent as to my abilities and 
inabilities, and not one in ten thousand would have been 
any wiser. Being, as you'll understand, somewhat knav- 
ishfy inclined, I blurted out the truth. Besides, I think, 
I was rather independent — a failing which, fortunately, 
few teachers have. From some cause or other, enough 
to say that teaching and I disagreed, and that firm was 
broken up. 

Steady. — And then ? 

Flyaway. — And then I betook myself to politics. It 
was Dr. Johnson — wasn't it — who said that patriotism 
was the last refuge of the scoundrel? Edited a daily 
newspaper, and " stumped it " during a bitter campaign. 
We won, and I was offered an office commensurate with 
my services in behalf of the cause. 

Steady. — What ! an attorney-generalship ? 

Flyaway. — Not so bad as that, Sam — an under-clerk- 



134 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

ship in the Secretary of State's office ! Eight hundred or 
eight hundred and fifty — I forget which. 

Steady. — You took it ? 

Flyaway.— Yes, in high dudgeon— threw up my posi- 
tion, and eked out a tolerable livelihood by writing for 
magazines and literary journals. Meanwhile I attended 
medical lectures. 

Steady. — For what purpose ? 

Flyaway. — To fit myself for a plrysician, to be sure. 
I had often thought of that well-known test of respecta- 
bility — keeping a gig — and hoped sooner or later to 
achieve ib. 

Steady. — But, seriously, did you turn medic. ? 

Flyaway. — Yes, in the far West— in Minnesota. And 
the joke was that during a two years stay in that State 
I never heard of but one sick person in the whole region 
round about; and he had been stranded there just dead 
with a pulmonary complaint. 

Steady. — How did you manage to live ? 

Flyaway. — By politics. I was sent to the Legislature, 
and believe I should have made a permanent investment 
in that stock, if, unfortunately, our party hadn't sunk 
into a minority so small that I feared I should die waiting 
for its resurrection. Then, having saved a few dollars — 
how I managed it, I can't, for the life of me, tell, but 
manage it I did — I went abroad, figuring as " Our Special 
Correspondent " for a brace of metropolitan journals. 

Steady. — Your signature ? 

Flyaway. — " Nameless here for evermore!" No — you 
can't catch me in that trap. I won't trust even you. The 
journals for which I wrote are at opposite poles in political 
sympathies, foreign and domestic ; and you can under- 
stand my reasons for silence. Well, the war broke out — 
I returned — went into the army as a private — remained 
till the end — came out a colonel. Made a fair record for 
myself, I believe. 

Steady. — Yes, that you did, Tom — I heard of you, my 
boy, occasionally, and regretted, hundreds of times, the 
entangling domestic alliances which detained me here. 

Flyaway. — I have never been embarrassed by such 
entanglements. 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 135 

Steady. — Why not? Too much of a vagabond — of a 
Bohemian ? No chances ? 

Flyaway. — Oh, for that matter, I believe I've had 
offers enough — rather I should say have had opportunities 
enough to offer myself; but I have never yet decided that 
I am able to take care of myself. 

Steady. — Why not get one to take care of you? 

Flyaway. — Excuse me, Sam — as Artemus Ward says, 
"not on purpose!" I prefer, while I live, attending to 
that department of business myself. 

Steady. — You said a bit ago that you are settled now. 
Do you mean here with us ? What are you going into 
next ? Railway engineering, or the drug business ? 

Flyaway. — Oh, I earn a comfortable livelihood by my 
pen. Have a book in press from which I hope something. 
And, if the worst comes to worst, shall fall back on poli- 
tics. Our boys are at the top now in this latitude. 

Steady. — Well, old fellow, you know where to find me, 
and 1 needn't tell you that I shall always be glad to have 
you around. 

Flyaway. — But madam 

Steady. is simply madam. I select my own 

friends, Tom, spite of your bachelor heresies on that 
matter. 

Flyaway. — Sensible child ! But, isn't selection one 
thing and obtaining allowance to enjoy quite another ? 
Come, old fellow, own up ! 

Steady. — Not in my establishment, Didymus. I pad- 
dle my own end of the canoe. 

Flyaway. — Sensible to the last I I'll drop in on you 
often. 

Steady. — Do so — do so ! Tom, do } r ou ever think of 
that saying, "A Jack at all trades, and " 

Flyaway \_motioning as if to box his ears~\. — You 
needn't finish it, Sam 1 

[Curtain falls. ~\ 



136 POPULAR DIALOGUES 



HELEN MACTREVER. 

DRAMATIZED FROM J. LOFLANd's 

SCENES AT THE BATTLE OF BRAN DY WINE." 

CHARACTERS. 

Col. MacTrever, an American colonel. 

Helen, his daughter. 

Donald, his son. 

Major Sanford, a British captain. 

Mike, a watchman. 

Judge Advocate, officers and soldiers. 



reading — Enter Helen. 

Helen. — Dear father, I am almost afraid to venture 
my noble charger to-day. 

Col. [laying down his spectacles."] — Why so, my child ? 

Helen. — T had an ugly dream last night, and imagined 
I was lost in a woodland, whence I was carried off by a 
stranger. 

Col. — Poh ! poh ! child, do you believe in foolish 
dreams? Do you not know that the Scripture declares 
that fools build upon dreams? 

Helen. — But, father, Milton also tells us that millions 
of spiritual creatures walk the earth, unseen, both when 
we wake and when we sleep, and may they not be com- 
missioned to tell us of our danger? May they not 
whisper to us of good or evil during our dreams ? 

Col. — Why, really, you are becoming superstitious. I 
thought you had too much sense to entertain such non- 
sense. 

Helen. — Ah, father, it is not only the ignorant who are 
superstitious — if you are pleased to call it so. Many of 
the wisest men that ever dignified and adorned the pages 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 137 

of history entertained such nonsense, and believed in 
supernatural revelations. 

Col. [laughing.'] — Well, well, go take your ride, and if 
none of the red coats carry you off I will be satislied. 
[ Curtain falls.'] 



Scene II. — A room in Col. MacT's bouse — Enter Major 
Sanford and Helen, in riding costume. 

Maj. — Now, my good lady, you seem to have entirely 
recovered from your fall, and are safe in your father's 
house, and, although I would gladly tarry, I must not 
forget that I am in the house of my professed enemy. 
For your sake as well as my own I will haste away. But 
I will soon meet you again [bowing out, and Helen follow- 
ing]. 

[Enter Col. MacTrever. Looks around — paces the room 

angrily.] 

[Enter Helen ] 

Helen. — Oh, father, it was as I feared — my charger 
frightened 

Ool. [angrily.] — Can it be possible that Helen Mac- 
Trever will stoop to the society of an enemy of her 
country ? Can you countenance a foe to freedom who 
this very day may imbrue his hands in the blood of his 
brave brother who is now battling for liberty in the ranks 
of the great and good George Washington ? For shame ! 
Let me never again see you bestow a smile upon an enemy 
who w r ould not hesitate to make midnight glittter with 
your burning home. 

Helen. — But, father 

Col. [agitated.] — No buts, if you please ; that red coat 
shall never again darken my door if I can prevent it. 

Helen [raising herself to her full height and assuming 
an air of dignified importance]. — Let me inform you, 
sir, without intending any disrespect, that the cause of 
American freedom is as dear to my heart as to yours, or 
to that of any other patriot ; but, at the same time, I hope 
I shall never forget that respe-ct which is due to a flag of 
truce and to the politeness of a well-bred gentleman, be 
that gentleman a friend or foe to my country. Though 



138 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

nationally at enmity, it is no reason that we should be 
individually so. 

Col. — Very pretty logic, 'pon my word. Well, "well, 
if you prefer the society of your country's bitter enemy, 
encourage him, and when his hands are reeking with the 
gore of your slaughtered brother and countryman, marry 
him, and go to England, and starve. You cannot remain 
with me, or expect a penny from one who bears the name 
MacTrever ! 

Helen [bursting into tears']. — Dearest father, he is 
nothing to me more than a friend, and, as he has always 
acted the part of a gentleman, I cannot but respect him 
as such. 

Col. — I see how strong your friendship is, and it is 
with you as I have found it to be the case with every 
woman I ever knew : when she once fixes her mind upon 
a man, and she generally chooses the man that all the 
world beside would have rejected, not all the angels in 
heaven can persuade her to relinquish him. But be it so, 
you can repent at your leisure. 

Helen. — But, my dear father, what if we could win 
him over to the cause of American freedom ? That would 
be a glorious achievement. 

Col. [his countenance relaxing.] — A}^e ! if you could 
do that it would be glorious, and willingly would I give 
him your hand ; but these red coats are true to old 
George, their master, and I'll have nothing to do with 
them. 

Helen. —But, father, you'll allow me to treat him 
civilly while endeavoring to win him over to our cause. 

Col — Convert him ! Folly, child, folly. I say I'll 
allow 3'ou to have nothing at all to do with him or an}' 
other cursed red coat. [Exit Helen.] [Soliloquizing.] 
I see ! I see! " Frailty thy name is woman." [Call 6] 
Mike! Mike! 

Mike [outside"}. — Ho, yer honor! [Enter Mike, with 
spade in hand.] Did yer honor call me ? 

Col. — Mike, put away your spade and take this gun 
[hands Mm a rifle] ; and, mark you, if any man comes on 
the premises at dead of night fire on him. 

Mike. — Yis, an' be dad, sir, I'm the boy can do it, sir. 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 139 

Col. — Now mind, Mike, watch well ; keep jour eyes 
open all night. 

Mike. — Sure an' yer honor, it isn't Mike Maloney that 
would be spalpen on guard. 

Col. — Well, well, go 

Mike. — Yis, Colonel. 

[ Curtain falls. ] 

Scene III. — In a grove near Col. MacT's house — Mike 
seated by a bush with rifle, sleeping and nodding — Helen 
enters, disguised by throwing her brother's cloak on — Major 
Sanford approaches — Mike hears her step and wakens, 
levels his gun at Helen. 

Helen. — Ha! he comes. I see his graceful form amid 
the tall trees of the park. [Major S. rushes towards her 
as if to embrace her. Helen raises her hand to bid him 
stop.'] Nay, na}^ Major, we meet not here for a love-dal- 
liance to-night, but on business dear to my heart and to 
my country. 

[Mike lowers his gun and listens.] 

Maj. S. — What are the terms you speak of? 

Helen. — I can never consent to your proposition until 
you forsake the unjust cause you have espoused and join 
the glorious little band now struggling for freedom. In 
other words, I will never consent to give you my hand 
till you swear to betray General 

Mike. — [in undertone], — Treason, by the dads ! 

Maj. S. [starting.] — Hark ! did you not hear a voice ? 

Helen. — No ; it was but the wind sighing in the trees. 

Maj. S. — Could you love a traitor ? 

Helen. — Aye, when the traitor betrays a tyrant, and 
succors the oppressed. Indeed he is no traitor who be- 
trays the vicious desires of a despot ; and who, in es- 
pousing the cause of the injured, avenges their wrongs. 
No, Major Sandford, he can never merit the appellation 
traitor, who flies from vice to virtue — who forsakes a 
cause that is positively wrong. 

Maj. S. — You are well skilled in moral philosoph}^, I 
see ; but shall I turn against the land of my birth and the 
home of my fathers ? 



1 40 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

Helen.— Are we not all of the same country? And 
were one part of your household to oppress the other, 
would you not espouse the cause of the oppressed ? 

Maj. S. — I certainly would — but the oath of allegiance ! 
Ay — the oath I should have taken to 

Helen. — An unrighteous oath is not binding No, sir. 
an oath, extorted by a tyrant, to oppress the weak and 
enslave jour fellow-man, is not binding — I say it is not 
binding in the sight of Heaven. God will never sanction 
an oath unholy in its object and in its end. [Mike has 
fallen asleep.'] It is far nobler, and far less heinous in 
the sight of God, to break an unrighteous oath to a tyrant, 
than to fulfil that oath by crushing the oppressed, and 
carrying death and devastation to the homes of helpless 
wives and children. Your heart, Major, was never de- 
signed by Heaven to glut its vengeance on those who are 
struggling only for their rights, and have done no wrong. 

Maj. S. — Almost thou persuadest me to be a patriot — 
a rebel ! But if I break my oath of allegiance, how could 
you place confidence in my oath to liberty ? 

Helen. — I could place confidence in you, because you 
would act honestly to your conscience, and justly to the 
oppressed, by breaking an unholy oath to a tyrant. He 
who acts justly and honestly can never betray. 

Maj. S. [Talcing her hand and gazing at her.'] — In what 
then can I serve you ? 

Helen. — You can serve me, or rather my countiy and 
the sacred cause of humanity, justice, and the rights of 
man, by assisting a handful of men to recover their birth- 
right. 

Maj. S. — But in what manner? 

Helen. — By betraying General Howe, the jackall of the 
lion, George III., into the hands of the brave Washington, 
or those of any of his generals. This will be the first 
step. You have solicited my hand in marriage — but never 
until 

Maj. S. — But should I fail — death, ignominious death, 
would be my portion. 

Helen [solemnly']. — Should 3 r ou triumph in the attempt, 
my hand and heart, and all that I possess of this world, 
shall joyously be given to you. But should you fail, and 
your life be the forfeit, then I swear to die with you. 






POPULAR DIALOGUES 141 

Maj. S. — Then, by heavens ! for such a prize it shall be 
done, or I will perish in the attempt ! But, Helen, this is 
a heavy undertaking — how shall it be accomplished. 

Helen. — Easily. I have laid the snare. The plan is 
this : Here are two letters [handing them to him singly]. 
This one is addressed to General Washington, asking him 
to appoint two or three officers, who shall meet the writer 
in the grove by the old Quaker meeting-house, on a certain 
night — at which time and place, the commander-in-chief of 
the British forces, General Howe, shall be betrayed into 
their hands. This other is addressed, as you may see, to 
General Howe, stating that if he will meet the writer in 
person, at the same time and place, General Washington 
shall be betrayed into his hands. 

Maj. S. — Capital ! capital ! I will send them. 

Helen [seizing his hand"]. — Good-night, Major, good- 
night. May heaven bless you and our undertaking ! 

Maj. S. — Amen, say I. Good-night. [They turn and 
separate ; the Major attempts to put the letters in h s pocket, 
but accidentally drops the one to General Howe, leaving it 
unnoted behind ; Mike sees it and steals out and quietly picks 
it up. ] 

Mike [looking at the address]. — I always thought that 
girl had a sneaking notion to the tory side. 
[Curtain falls.] 

Scene IV. — In Co/. MacT's house — The Colonel has just 
arisen from bed, is yawning, and drawing on his boots — 
Enter Mike. 

Col — Well, Mike, what luck with the red coats ? 

Mike. — Yer honor may well ask that, you may. 
While I was sittin', and sitting and sittin' last night, 
watchin' for a red coat, who should come along with a 
coat and a hat on but a man, and he wasn't a man 
nither. 

Col. — Well, what in the name of Banquo's ghost was 
it? 

Mike — Why, 3 7 er honor, jist as I was a goin' to shoot, 
I diskivered that it was Miss Helen that I tuck to be a 
man, so I didn't shoot, but I sot and sot and sot and 



142 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

listened to her and some feller layin' a plot to betray 
Gineral Washington into the inimy's hands and upsot 
freed u in and ivcry thing. And here is a letter [handing 
it to the Colonel] that the feller took from Miss Helen, 
and he thought he put it in his pocket, but instid of that 
be drapt it fernenst the summer-house, so I thought I'd 
pick it up and bring it to ye. 

Col. — Right, Mike, right [takes the letter and reads it 
excitedly']. By heavens ! that scoundrel has bewitched 
my daughter, and he shall be arrested. 

Mike. — Aha ! yer honor, that's right ; he's nothin' 
nohow but a fort in hunter that wants to turn matrimony 
into a matter o' money. They'll betray our Gineral this 
very night. 

Col. — Well, Mike, let not another word fall from your 
lips on the subject, and the villian shall be caught in his 
own trap and swing on the first tree 

Mike. — Not another word, yer honor ; no, no, no, not 
another word ; niver fear me, I'll be thrue to ye. 
[Curtain falls.] 

Scene V. — In the grove — Enter two officers, sent by Gen, 
Washington, and Maj. Sanford, from one side of the stage, 
and Col. Mac Trever, face muffled, with Mike and two 
or three other stout men from the other — A pause. 

Maj. S. [stepping firmly forward and layiny his hand 
on Col. MacT's shoulder.] — General, you are my pris- 
oner ! 

Col. [throwing off his disguise and laying his hand on 
Sanford's shoulder.] — No, by heavens ! General Wash- 
ington is not your prisoner, but, sir, I know you are 
mine ! [whistles, and several stout men rush forth from 
their ambush.] Seize the villanous traitor ! [they seize 
him.] 

Donald [being one of the officers sent by Washington]. 
— What means this? 

Maj. S. — Let me explain this matter and you will not 
call me a traitor or a villain. 

Col. — Away with him, men! I have an explanation 
of the whole matter in my pocket in a handwriting I 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 143 

kuow as well as my own. Away with him ! I'll hear no 
more! [they pinion him and carry him to Col. MacT\ 
wine-cellar for safe keeping ] 

[Curtain falls.'] 



Scene VI. — In the wine-cellar — Major S. sitting on a 
wine cask. 

Maj. S. [soliloquizing.'] — Oh, woman, you are at the 
bottom of every thing. How many wars have you not 
incited? How many empires have nourished but to fall 
by your intrigues ? The proud palaces of Priam and the 
lofty towers of Troy by your charms were laid level with 
the dust. Yea, by your fascinating influence in the 
garden of Eden, mankind fell But you have atoned — 
you have redeemed your character. By you was brought 
into the world that glorious character who hung the rain- 
bow of redemption round the dying world. By you 
Christopher Columbus was enabled to discover a new 
continent. By you Rome was saved, and by you I shall 
yet be liberated from my perilous situation. 



[Curtain falls.] 

Scene VII. — In Colonel MacT's bedroom. The Colonel 
sleeping, and the key that unlocks the wine-cellar hanging 
on the wall above him. Helen enters stealthily, and creeps 
along to her father's bed — tries to reach the key, and finds 
it too high : then turns and gets a chair from another part 
of the room, but does not observe that one leg of the chair is 
broken ; places it close by the bed, quietly steps on it, when it 
tilts, and she falls heavily on the floor. She lies perfectly 
still, fearing to move a muscle. Her father is partially 
waked, moves a little ', and falls again into sound sleep. A 
second effort is successful, when she carries the key off in 
triumph. 

[Curtain falls.] 



144 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

Scene VIII. — In the cellar. Major S. in chains, sleeping, 
his head resting on a box or barrel. The sound of a turning 
lock is heard at the door. 

[Enter Helen. ] 

Helen {laying her hand gently on his shoulder]. — Major, 
Major, awake! I am here to save you. 

Maj. S. — Why, Helen, have you ventured here? You 
will incur your father's vengeance, if discovered. 

Helen. — Fear not for me. Woman will dare any thing 
for the man she loves. Yea, when all the world forsakes, 
she will follow him to the dungeon, and, though covered 
with crime, will clasp the victim in his chains. But there 
is no time to be lost in the waste of words — you must fly 
this instant. I have come to save you, or perish in the 
attempt ! 

Maj. S. — But by what means can I escape? There 
are watchful eyes about the building ; and to elude their 
vigilance is impossible. I saw a guard, but a minute 
ago, pass the grated window, and he would recognize and 
stop me. 

Helen [pauses in deep study"]. — I have it ! I have it ! 
Major, be of good cheer — I will save you I 

[Exit in haste.] 

[Re-enter Helen, with one of her dresses, a long cloak and 

bonnet] 

Haste ! haste ! Pat on this dress over your own, and 
you may pass out and be mistaken for me. Nay, not 
another word ! I will meet 3 r ou to-morrow night at the 
old Quaker meeting-house. Away ! quick, quick ! 

Maj. S. [Imprinting a kiss on Helen's hand ] — Angel ! 
angel ! 

[Curtain falls.] 

Scene IX. — In the street, outside the cellar. Ala] or passes 
in disguise. 

Guard [passing to and fro with gun]. — Hold ! [ap- 
proaching Major S. , and looting into his face. In guttural 
tones]: — You may pass, madam. 

[ Curtain falls. ] 
o2 21 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 145 

Scene X. — In a small, badly-furnished room. Major S. 
suffering from a wounded arm. 

{Enter Helen Sanford.] 

Helen {with joy on her face~\. — Oh, n^ clear husband ! 
here is a letter from my dear father — and hope whispers 
that it contains relief, or, at least, the promise of it. 
Something seemed to whisper that, in all our distress, a 
better fortune awaited us. 

Maj. S.— Read it, Helen. 

{Helen opens it, and reads'] : " My once-beloved daugh- 
ter -You have fled from my roof with a mean British spy, 
and have therefore forfeited my protection. You must 
bring stronger proof than you have yet brought to induce 
me to believe that a British spy was wounded in the cause 
of freedom. But, if you will leave your paramour {pauses 
and weeps], and return to me, I will, in mercy, guarantee 
to you a sufficiency to keep } t ou from want ; but otherwise, 
not a penn}^ of mine shall ever bless a red-coat {with ex- 
citement and grief she almost faints, and falls upon the 
floor]. 

Helen {recovering]. — Oh, God ! Oh, God ! What is to 
become of us ? Universal distress pervades the country, 
and poverty stalks abroad. Cruel, cruel father, thus to 
reflect upon the character of a daughter, by calling her 
husband a paramour 1 I could have borne any thing else, 
but this is too severe. 

Maj. S. {sighing.'] — Well, it is useless to repine. We 
have one consolation — we are as low in the scale of pov- 
erty as we can sink ; and if a change takes place, it must 
be for the better. 

{A loud knock at the door.] 

Helen {opening the door, three stout men enter]. — Oh ! 
on what errand have you come to this house of suffering? 
Our sorrows are great enough already, without the addi- 
tion of any more. 

First Officer.— We come, madam, to arrest a vile 
spy, who basely attempted at Chadd's Fori to betray the 
guardian spirit of America. Seize him instantly — he shall 
not escape again I 



146 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

iSecond and Third Officers seize him and drag him to the 

door.'] 
Helen [holding to her husband]. — Oh, for heaven's sake, 
have mercy on my poor husband ! — he is innocent — he is 
not guilty of the charge ! 

First Officer. — Away with the villain — and let not a 
woman's tears or a woman's prayers unman you ! 
[ They drag him out the door — Helen swoons and falls.] 
[ Curtain falls.] 



Scene XI. — Court-?nariial. Enter Judge Advocate, Major 
Sanford, Helen, jailor, and witnesses. 

Judge Ad. [seating himself and looking around.] — We 
are now ready to proceed with the examination of wit- 
nesses who are here to testify concerning the conduct of 
the prisoner, who has been arrested under the charge of 
being a British spy. First witness, Michael Maloney. 

Mike [stepping up hastily]. — Here am I, sir. 

Judge Ad. — Do you know the prisoner? 

Mike. — I do, sir, know him well. 

Judge Ad. — Where did you ever meet him ? 

Mike. — Well, sir, to tell the truth, I never met him at 
all, at all. 

Judge Ad. — Did you ever see him ? 

Mike. — Yis, faith, I did, sir, when he didn't see me. 

Judge Ad. — Well, Michael, how was that? Explain 
yourself. 

Mike. — Well, sir, that I wull. The Colonel, ye see, 
called me to him ; and says he — Mike, says he — I want 
you to guard this house, says he, at night, says he, an' if 
any red-coat comes onto the premises, says he, shoot him, 
sa} T s he. Says I, I will Colonel, says I. So you see, I jist 
set down behind a tree fernenst the summer-house. I 
hadn't sot there long, when sure enough here come the 
very feller, ye see, I was lookin' fur, and Miss Helen — 
that's the Colonel's daughter— met him there; and I didn't 
shoot, fur I was afeard of hitten her. 

Judge Ad. — Did you hear what he said to Miss Mac- 
Trever ? 

Mike. — Hear him, is 't? That I did, yer honor — I 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 147 

heard ivery word that come of his mouth as plain as 1 
hear yer honor now. 

Judge Ad. — And what did yon hear him say? 

Mike. — What did he say, sir? Why, yer honor, he 
said that if Miss Helen would help him, he would betray 
Gineral Washington into the hands of the inemy. That 
I heard, sir — and what more could ye ask agin him ? 

Judge Ad. — Was that all you heard ? 

Mike. — No, sir. They had a deal of talk ; and when 
they parted, the chap dropped a letter unknown to him- 
self, which I picked up and gave the Colonel ; and if you 
could see that, ye wouldn't want any more. 

Judge Ad. — That will do, Michael. John Stone. 

Stone. — Here. 

Judge Ad. — What have you to testify against the pris- 
oner? Did you ever see him ? 

Stone. — I have, sir, often. 

Judge Ad. — Where ? 

Stone. — I saw him once in Colonel MacTrever's cellar. 

Judge Ad. — Were you in the cellar? 

Stone. — I was not, sir ; but I was guarding the house, 
and saw him through the grated window. 

Judge Ad. — How did he come to escape? 

Stone. — Well, sir, he was disguised as a lady, and I 
took him to be the Colonel's daughter. 

Judge Ad. — And you are sure that this is the man? 

Stone. — I am, sir. 

Judge. — That will do. [A pause] Although two im- 
portant witnesses, Colonel MacTrever and his son Donald, 
have not arrived, I think it unnecessary to delay the sen- 
tence, as the evidence heretofore brought to my notice, as 
well as that now given, is of such a character as leaves 
no room for doubt. And, sir [turning to the prisoner], I 
pronounce you guilty of the charges brought against you. 

Helen. — He is innocent ! he is innocent ! Heaven is 
witness he is innocent! [Swoons and falls.] 

Judge Ad. — Conduct the prisoner away. 

[Enter Donald and Colonel MacTrever.] 

Donald. — Nay, one moment ! [Looks steadily into the 
face of Sanford.] It is he indeed! It is the man who, 
at the risk of his own, saved my life at the battle of* Brandy- 
wine, when a powerful Hession had cloven me to the earth. 



148 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 



There must be some mysterious mistake about this matter, 
for I saw this man fighting like a tiger in the cause of 
freedom during the whole battle. 

Maj. S. [handing Colonel MacTrevera letter.']— There, 
sir, if I may not yet dare to call you father, read that, and 
you will find in it an explanation of all this mystery, which 
has given us all so much trouble. [A pause while the 
Colonel reads.'] 

Col. — Judge, you must liberate the prisoner. He is 
entirely innocent, and deserves our highest commendation. 
We have all been cruelly deceived. A wicked ha*te in 
judgment has done this man great wrong, which all our 
apologies cannot right. [Stepping forward and taking 
Sanford by the hand. ] My dear sir — my son — I am deeply 
grieved that I have thus wronged you and Helen. But I 
shall right this wrong by deed as well as word. Come to 
your home, my daughter, and bring your noble husband 
with you, and you shall share with us the comforts and 
honors we are able to enjoy. 

Judge. — I release the prisoner to your custody, Colonel. 
Do with him as you will, and I fear not that the ends of 
justice will be answered. 

[ Curtain falls. ] 




POPULAR DIALOGUES 149 



TRUSTING TOO FAR; 

OR, 

LEARNING BY EXPERIENCE. 

CHARACTERS. 

Mrs. Elton, a woman easily deceived. 

Mr. Elton, her husband. 

Mary Elton, their daughter. 

Mrs. Black, ) XT . . 

A n x^ ' > Visitors. 

Miss Dunn, j 

Patrick McGee, a servant. 

Mr. Gray. 

Captain McCartney. 

Scene I. — City dining-room. Mr. Elton and daughter 
taking seats at the breakfast-table. 

Enter Mrs. Elton, in a flurry. 

Mrs. E. — It is too bad ; never was there a woman so 
tormented. 

Mr. E.— What is the trouble now, my dear? 

Mrs. E. — Bridget has gone. 

Mr. E. — Bridget gone ? 

Mrs E. — Yes, Bridget's gone ! 

Mr. E. - When ? 

Mrs. E. — Last night or early this morning. 

Mr. E. — Without her wages ? 

Mrs. E. — No, indeed. 

Mr. E. — Then she gave notice of leaving ? 

Mrs. E. — Not a word. She asked me yesterday for 
some money — said her mother was very sick, and if I 
would settle with her, she would go and take her some 
things. Her father was not well-doing, and she expected 
they were in need. 

Mr. E. — And you paid her ? 

Mrs. E. — Yes, and gave her five dollars besides. Her 
wages seem such a trifle, if she wanted to get things for 



150 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

her mother, and I told her we could deduct it from our 
next settlement. She seemed so grateful 

Mr. E. — Where does her mother live ? 

Mrs. E. — She told me in Twenty-third street. 

Mary. — Why, mamma, she told me last week that she 
had no mother. 

Mr. E. — Ah ! and she left last night, or this morning? 

Mrs. E. — Yes ; and took all, if not more, than belonged 
to her. 

Mr. E. — Just as I expected. I warned you not to 
trust her. 

Mrs. E. — Oh, yes — 3^011 warned me. 

Mr. E.— Yes, I did; but where experience cannot 
teach, advice is of little benefit. Is this the fifth or sixth 
one who has played off the same game upon you ? You 
will never learn. 

Mrs. E. — No, I will never learn. You, Mr. Elton, had 
better take the kitchen cares on your own shoulders. I 
am sure I do the best I can. 

Mr. E. — 'Tis not what you do not do, Anna ; 'tis what 
you do. Kind-hearted and unsuspicious yourself, the 
vile and dishonest are ever ready to take advantage of 
you. 

Mrs. E. — Well, it does seem so. There was Ellen who 
went off taking two of my best dresses. I took her in 
through charity ; the poor creature had no home she said, 
and then to go off as she did, — but if they act ungratefully 
it is no fault of mine. 

Mr. E. — Yes, it is yowv fault ; you place too much con- 
fidence in them from the first. 

Mrs. E.— Well, I cannot bear the poor things to feel 
that I suspect them of dishonest3 r . 

Mr. E. — And I think you do them more injury than 
good. 

Mrs. E.— Why so? 

Mr. E. — Well, it's seldom that a good girl seeks a situ- 
ation, without a good recommendation. Those whom 
you have trusted came without, and you should ; ave 
made them feel that they must prove themselves worthy 
before they won your trust 

Mrs. E. [laughing.'] - Oh, 3 r es, Mr. Elton, it is very 
eas3' for you to talk, but 3 r ou know I haven't the heart to 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 151 

practice your precepts. [Rising.'] This will not do. I 
must assist Jane, or, to use her own words, she will be 
"kilt intirely wid the hard work." 

Mr. E. — Introduce Mary into the kitchen ; it is high 
time she was learning something besides lounging in the 
parlor. Come, daughter, let me see you remove those 
breakfast things 

Mary. — Oh, papa, indeed I don't know how. It will 
soil my hands, and make them look so horrid when I 
practice my music lessons. [Goes to work. 3Irs. E. assists.] 

Mr. E. — Take care. They may spoil your fortune if you 
brown them by toil. I wish my daughter would try to 
cultivate good common-sense with her other accomplish- 
ments. [ To Mrs. E.] I think, Mrs. Elton, I will employ 
a serving man. We can find sufficient for him to do, 
can we not ? 

Mrs. E. — If you do, I hope you will have better success 
than I have with serving maids. 

Mr. E. [laughing. ,] — Well, don't you spoil them. Mary, 
be a good girl and learn to work, and when your mamma 
feels disposed to come with you, you may come down to 
the store and get that new dress we were talking about. 
[Looking at his watch.] It is time I was off. [Exit. ] 

Mary. — Now I just think it is too bad in papa, wanting 
me to go to work; just see, I know it will spoil my 
hands ; may I not leave Jane finish this, mamma ? 

Mrs. E. — Your father told you to do it, and you will 
miss that new dress 

Mary. — What time will you go with me, by ten or 
half-past ten ? 

Mrs. E. — That depends how well you work. 

Mary. — Oh, I'll work ever so fast; now mind, I want 
a real nice dress. 

[Exit Mrs. E. and Mary with breakfast things.] 

Scene II. — Mrs. E. and Mary on the street, in full walk- 
ing-dress — Mary drops her pocket-handkerchief- — A man 
with a hod near by picks it up. 

Irishman. — Hallo — hallo-o, madam, and this dainty 
belongs till yer, madam. 



152 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

[Ladies pausing. Man stepping forward, raises his hat, 
and presents the handkerchief.] 

Mrs. E. — Honest man, you deserve better employment. 

Irishman. — Troth, ant it's no choice of me own, at all, 
at all; it's becase it's mesilf that's a stranger in the land. 
Sure if I was waitin'-mon for a leddy the likes of }^e, it 
would be heaven intirely, it would. 

Mrs. E. — What is your name? 

Irishman. — Patrick McGee, yer honor; ant as honest 
a name as iver crossed the water. 

Mrs. E. — Well, Patrick, take this [hands him her card], 
and call at that place at two o'clock to-day ; my husband 
will be at home then, and, I think, probably will give you 
better employment than carrying the hod. [ Turning to 

Pat — Heaven bless ye and yers foriver and iver. 
[Exit see ne.~\ 

Scene III. — Dinner-table — Mr. and Mrs. E. and Mary. 

Mr. E. — Bridget has not returned yet ? 

Mrs. E. — Not she. Will you not advertise for another 
this afternoon ? 

Mr. E. — Yes ; and will advertise at the same time for 
a servant man. I would like a good-natured, trusty 
fellow, one who could turn his hand to any thing, and be 
generally useful. 

Mary. — Ma, that man we met to-day was that kind, 
wasn't he? 

Mrs. E. — I cannot tell ; he was intelligent-looking. 

Mr. E. — Who was he — some adventurer ? 

Mrs. E. — He was an Irishman ; honest, I think. We 
had evidence of that. Mary 

Mary. — Yes; I dropped my pocket-handkerchief, he 
found it, and instead of retaining it, he brought it and 
gave it to us. 

Mr. E. — Well, what became of him ? 

[Enter maid. To Mr. E.~\ 

Maid. — A man wants to speak with you, sir. 

Mr. E. — Is he in the parlor ? 

Maid.- -No, sir; he is in the basement. 

Mr. E. — Show him here. 

[Exit maid.~] 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 153 

Mrs. E. — I think it is probable he has called, as I told 
him to do so. 

[Enter Pat.'] 

Mr. E. — Well, what is your business? 

Pat. — Yer good leddy, 3 T er honor, may heaven bless 
her, tould me that if I would call, that mebbe yer honor 
would give me emplo3 T ment. 

Mr. E. — How have you been getting your living ? 

Pat. — Carrying the hod, yer honor. Sure I don't like 
the business, honest though it be. 

Mr. E. — How long have 3^011 been in this country? 

Pat. — Six months, yer honor ; and sorry was the day 
that I iver left me home in ould Ireland. 

Mr. E. — What business did 3 T ou follow there ? 

Pat. — What business bit me ain, yer honor ; sure it is 
no honest callin' to be gaddin' 'round, 'tendin' to other 
people's. 

Mr. E. — Well, but how did you live ? 

Pat. — Bless me soul, by eatin' and drinkin', yer honor. 

Mr. E. — Yes ! but didn't you work ? 

Pat. — Wark, be jabers and I did. Troth, but didn't I 
sarve wid as honest a raon as ever lived in Ireland, present 
compan3 T excepted ? 

Mr. E. [laughing.] — I don't think any of the present 
compan3 T ever lived in Ireland [looking around]. 

Pat. — Sure, and isn't it meself I'm maining; I never 
vouch for the honesty of strangers. 

Mr E. — What kind of work can 3-011 do ? 

Pat. — What eny other mon can do, 3'er honor. 

Mr. E. — Well, suppose 3 t ou and I make a bargain 
What do you want per month ? 

Pat. — I want mone3^, 3 r er honor. 

Mr. E. — Of course, but how much ? 

Pat. — What will yer honor be plazed to give me ? 

Mr. E. — Well, I suppose if I find 3 r ou honest and trust- 
worthy, I will give eighteen dollars per month. 

Pat. — Ant couldn't yer honor make it twent3' ? that 
would just be the even tens, and they are so much asier 
counted. 

Mr. E. — If you do your duty I don't think we '11 quar- 
rel about that ; now go back to the basement and get 
your dinner. [Exit Pat ] 



154 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

Mrs E. — Well, how do you like his appearance? 
Mr. E. — He is dumb enough to be hones 
Mrs. E. — Oh, I am sure he is honest! 
Mr. E. [laughing.'] — Remember your failing. [Rising 
from the table.'] 

[Exit scene.] 



Scene IV. — Mrs. E. in a parlor — Pat in a new suit of 
clothes, ushers in visitors — Enter Mrs. Black and Miss 
Dunn. 

Mrs. E. — Good-afternoon, ladies. Will you walk into 
the dressing-room and lay aside your bonnets ? 

Mrs. B. — No, thank you ; we design only a short call. 

Mrs. E. — It has been so long since you were here, that 
I shall only excuse your negligence by detaining you the 
remainder of the afternoon ; so walk up and lay off your 
bonnets. 

Mrs. B. — Oh, indeed, Mrs. Elton, it is impossible. 

Mrs. E. [to Miss D.] — Do you not think she is jesting ? 

Miss D. — No ; it is certainly impossible. Shall I te.U 
you why ? 

Mrs. E. — Undoubtedly; but first be seated. [Nodding 
to Miss D.] Proceed. 

Miss D. — She did not tell her good man, and his dis- 
appointment would be too great if she wasn't at the door 
to meet him when he came home. 

Mrs. B. — I always make it a point never to absent 
myself from home during tea hour, without mentioning it 
to my husband before I go. 

Miss D. — A very dutiful wife my little sister makes. 
Does she not, Mrs. Elton ? 

Mrs. E. — I think so. 

Mrs. B. — Not more than I should be. Mr. Black's 
business calls him away so much that I should fear he 
would feel that I set but very little value on my home 
and his society, if I should carelessly absent myself in 
the few hours that business permits him to spend at 
home. 

[Pat shows a ragged-looking woman and child in.] 

PAT. — Sure, madam, it's a gintleman you made of me, 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 155 

and won't ye do somethin' for this poor crature ? Heaven 
bless ye. 

Mrs. E. [annoyed.'] — Patrick, why didn't you take 
them to the basement ? [ To the woman.'] I am engaged 
now. I have no time to attend to yon. [Taking her 
purse she hands her money.] Patrick, show her out. 

Mrs. B. — New servants are often so annoying. We 
have lately employed Patrick, and I don't know whether 
we will be able to teach him any thing or not. He seems 
honest. 

[Bell rings. Pat ushers in Mr. Gray and Captain 
McCartney. Mr. G. shakes hands with the ladies and in- 
troduces the Captain. Mrs. E. invites them to be seated. 
Pat remains on the stage, taking a seat rather hack of 
Mrs. E.] 

Mrs. E. — Why, Mr. Gray, I understood you. were ab- 
sent from the city. When did you return ? 

Mr. G. — Last week only. Oh, yes, I made quite a 
tour during the summer. I think every one should see 
something of their own land before the} 7 visit other coun- 
tries. I expect to start on a tour through Europe next year. 

Miss D. — Will you go to Rome ? How I envy you ! 

Cap. — Then you are fond of travelling, Miss Dunn ? 

Miss D. — Indeed I am, but I have had little oppor- 
tunity of gratifying it. 

Mrs. B. — Your tour did not extend very far through 
the Southern States, I suppose, Mr. Gray ? 

Mr. G. — No, not very far. Had my health permitted 
I should have enjoyed following in the trail of Sherman, 
on his way to Atlanta. 

Mrs. E.— From appearance, Captain, you have seen 
something of the South or Southern people. I see you 
carry your arm in a sling. 

Cap. — Yes, I was wounded in the shoulder about a 
3 r ear ago. I have not been able for duty since. I hope 
to return at an early day, probably next week. 

Mrs. B. — Have you been with the army since the first 
breaking out of the rebellion ? 

Cap. — No, ma'am; I was in Dublin then. 

Pat [speaking aloud]. — Thin it's the ould country yer 
from ? Give us a sheek iv your hand for the sake of thQ 
swate ould place. 



156 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

Mrs. E. [rising to her feet."] — Patrick, 3^011 here? 

Pat. — It's raeself shure, and didn't I tell Mr. Elton 
that I could do what any other mon could, and isn't it 
meself what can entertain the ladies and gmtlemen, when 
he is absent ? 

Mrs. E. [going to the door.'] — Patrick, I wish to speak 
to you. 

[Exit Pat and Mrs. Elton.'] 

Mr. G. — That man is tipsy. 

Mrs. B. — lie certainly acts strangely. 
[Enter Mrs. Elton.] 

Mr. G. — How long has that man been in your employ? 

Mrs. E Only to-day ; came at noon. 

Mr. G. — He has been drinking. 

Mrs E. — I fear he has ; he appeared to be perfectly 
sober when .my husband employed him, but he took him 
up and had him fitted out with a new suit of clothes, and 
I suppose he had to stop on his return and drink in honor 
of them. 

Cap. — No doubt ; that is a failing so mairy of my poor 
count^men have. 

[PaVs voice heard at a distance, singing u Lanighan's 
Ball " — " Me father he died and he made me a man agin." 
Enter hearing a waiter with glasses and pitcher.] 

Pat. — And it's whiskey punch it is to warm }^e when 
ye'r cauld, or make ye }^oung whin ye'r auld. [Staggering, 
catches his foot in the carpet and falls near Miss Dunn — 
gathering himself up.] Och, me dear leddy, did it get 
over ye ? The nasty baste, ant it was too heavy for me, 
and pulled me down, the dirty critter. 

Cap. [talcing hold of him.] — Come, m}^ man, I think 
yon would make a better soldier than a waiting-man. 

Pat. — Soldier do you main ? Niver while my name is 
Pat McGee. I'll never disgrace its beauty by fighting 
for the nagers. 

Cap. — I have fought against oppression, and hope to do 
so again. 

Pat. — That's where two Irishmen differ just as much 
as chalk and cheese. It is a family brawl, and an Irish- 
man ought to have nothing to do with it. They don't 
belong to the family. 

Mr. G. — Then, I suppose, Irishmen do not vote. 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 157 

Pat. [excited.] — Yis, they do vote! 
Mr. G. — Oh, then, they belong to the family. 
[Enter Mr. Elton.] 

Mr. E.— Good-afternoon [bowing']. What is the matter 
here? What does all this noise mean? 

Pat. — Main, jest! Why, 3 T er honor, it mains that just 
when I was showing these leddies and gentlemen how 
beautifully I could entertain them, and was jest bringing 
some of the crater to cheer their spirits whin the nasty 
baste got too heavy for me. 

Mr. E. — Take yourself off now. I want nobody in my 
employ who acts in this manner. 

Pet. — Faith, ant didn't I tell you I could do what any 
other mon could ? 

Mr. E. — And I told you to do as I bid you. I didu't 
bid you get drunk. Be off! 

Pet. — Plase, sir, and you niver tould me not to. 

Mr E — Be off with you ! I don't want you here! 

Pat. [crying.] — Must T put on thim ould clothes again ? 
1 thought it was a gintleman }^ou made of me intirely. 

Mr. E. — Be off with you ! clothes and all ! 

Pat. — Ant do ye main they are mine? [brightening.] 
God bless yer honor ! Ant may the divil blow me the 
night and the day, if iver I forgit to bless yer honor ! 
And it's niver a cint will I charge ye for this day's work, 
at all, at all. [Staggering, he bows himself out, singing :] 

" Now I'm goin' back agin, as poor as I began, 
To make a happ}' girl of Moll, for sure I think I can. 
My pockets they are empty, but my heart is full of joy. 
Auld Ireland is my country, and my name is Pat Maloy." 

[3Tr. Gray introduces Mr. E. and Captain McCartney.] 

Mr. E — I pit}- the poor fellow, but there is no depend- 
ence to be put in such a character. 

Cap. — Not a bit, not a bit ! 

[Ladies rising to go.] 

Mrs. E. — Well, I am sony you have been so annoyed. 
Pray call again soon. Don't be so formal. 

Mrs. B. — Thank you, I shall look for you to return 
mine. Do not let it be long. 

Mrs. D. — You, Miss Dunn, might often drop in. You 
have no household duties to look after. 



158 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

Mr. E. — Ladies, do not hurry off because I Lave 
come in. 

Mrs. B. — Certainly not ; but it is fully time we were 
going. 

Mr. G. — Captain, if the ladies do not object, we wiii 
walk up the street with them, as our way leads in the same 
direction. 

[Exit all.~\ 

Scene V .— • Supper-table — Mr. and Mrs. Elton ana 
daughters. 

Mrs. E.— Ha! ha! Sir Wisdom, and how do you like 
the experiment? 

Mr. E. — So well, I shall try it again. 

Mrs. E. — How much did the suit of clothes cost ? 

Mr. E. — Not over ten dollars. Poor fellow ! I pitied 
him. 

Mrs. E.— Oh! you did! 

Mr. E.— Now, Mrs. Elton, don't be sarcastic. You 
know it was all yowv fault. 

Mrs. E.— My fault ? 

Mr. E. — Yes. You recommended him. 

Mrs. E. — True ; but you knew my failing. 

Mary. — Has Patrick gone ? 

Mr. E. — Yes. Were you not at home this afternoon ? 

Mary. — No. I was out with Anna Stephens at her 
cousin's. I was telling them about Bridget. She used to 
live there, mamma, and went off in the same manner. 

Mrs. E. — Then I am not the only one she has hum- 
bugged. 

Mr. E. — And won't be the last. I think it will be well 
for us both to resolve now to employ no one without a 
good recommendation. 

Mrs. E. — I hardly think that is right. Every one must 
have a start somewhere. And although I have been 
cheated a number of times, I have not lost all faith yet; 
but will try to be more guarded in future. 
[ Curtain falls. ] 



POPULAP DIALOGUES 159 

READING WORKS OF FICTION. 

A DEBATE, 



President [rapping upon desk"]. — The Lyceum will 
please come to order. The first business this evening is 
reading the minutes of the last meeting. 

A member. — I move, Mr. President, that the reading 
of the minutes be dispensed with. 

[Motion seconded, put, and declared carried.] 

President. — The next business in order is the report 
of the Committee on Debate, Mr. Fisher, chairman. 

Fisher. — The Committee have agreed upon the follow- 
ing question for discussion this evening : Resolved, That 
the reading of works of fiction should be discountenanced. 
Disputants upon the affirmative, Messrs. Ames, Brown, 
Chase, Day, Fames, Fay, Good, Hope, Ivins and Jones ; 
negative, Messrs. Airy, Booth, Cass, Dilks, Easy, Fisher, 
Green, Hale, Ingalls and James. 

President. — The debate being next in order, it will be 
necessary to select a chairman of debate. 

A member. — I move that Mr. Judgment acts as chair- 
man. 

[Motion seconded, put, and carried.] 

Chairman [taking chair]. — The Lyceum has heard the 
question selected by the Committee. Mr. Ames will open 
in behalf of the affirmative. 

Ames. — Mr. Chairman — ladies and gentlemen : The 
question assigned for this evening's discussion resolves 
itself into the simple proposition, that the reading of 
works of fiction is productive of more injury than benefit. 
I am, to the best of my ability, to maintain the affirma- 
tive ; and I do so, sir, upon this ground, among others, 
that the reading of such works unfits one for the actual, 
practical duties of life. Using the word "novels" as 
tantamount, for the purposes of this debate, to the phrase 
" works of fiction," I assert that the writers of novels 
deal with unreal characters, living, moving, and having 
their being in an unreal world. The characters sketched, 



160 POPULAK DIALOGUES 

oftentimes with consummate ability, are at best but dis« 
tortions or caricatures of the men and women of every- 
day life. They are placed in such positions as will best 
enlist the interests of the reader, regardless of the re- 
quirements of truth. As a general thing, they are pushed 
to extremes, such as in this work-day world of ours we 
never encounter. Either the good are perfect, or the bad 
have so many redeeming traits about them that one is at 
loss whether to style them bad or good. Every thing is 
wrested from its actual surroundings as we find them 
about us. Even in those novels which profess to have a 
moral bearing, virtue and vice are so confounded in the 
characters that the dividing line is very often undistin- 
guishable, or virtue is portrayed with such drawbacks 
as to make vice appear lovely and desirable by contrast 

These works constitute the exclusive reading of 
numbers — of the rich and the idle, who, from their 
position of ease and leisure, have it in their power to 
influence others to an extent entirely disproportioned 
to their worth ; they form the reading of most men 
in their hours of leisure — a principal part of the 
reading of women — and, most unfortunate of all, a 
large proportion of the reading of the young, of those 
whose judgment is immature, who are mere creatures of 
impulse and passion and swayed this way and that as the 
novelist may choose. 

Now, Mr. Chairman, this life of ours is a serious affair. 
About it cluster the sternest realities; on its conduct de- 
pend the most momentous issues. Rightly to live de- 
mands the most careful painstaking. No effort can be 
spared to enable us to fulfil all the requirements which 
our position in this world of being lays upon us The 
farther we move from the actual practical facts of life, 
the nearer we approach to wrong-doing, the more readily 
we yield ourselves an easy prey to the temptations to evil 
which beset us upon every side. 

This hazard the novel-reader runs — fascinated with the 
charms of the work which he peruses — transported out 
of himself, for the time being, away from his own world, 
from the men and women whose destiny is his, into an 
idealized world, furnished with such inhabitants and fur- 
niture as suits the whim or caprice of genius. Taken 
p 22 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 161 

captive by what he reads, real life seems wanting in 
savor. The zest of healthy existence is gone ; the duties 
devolving upon him. become irksome; responsibility is 
shirked whenever it is possible ; and he degenerates into 
a listless dreamer, caring nothing for the goal towards 
which he should ever press, utterly unfitted for the scene 
of action in which he has been placed. 

Such, sir, I believe to be the effects of novel-reading ; 
and for this reason, saying nothing now of others, which 
will doubtless be presented hereafter, I most earnestly 
advocate the affirmative. 

Chairman. — Mr. Airy upon the negative. 

Airy. — Mr. Chairman: While I have no objection, 
speaking for myself only, to adopt the interpretation of 
the question given by the gentleman whom I follow, it 
must be distinctly understood that my colleagues are not 
to be bound by it, unless they choose. We understand 
the term " works of fiction " to include imaginative poems 
as well as novels, much of history so-called, no little of 
what passes current as biography — all writings, in short, 
which do not, throughout their entire extent, in general 
and in detail, adhere to the actual truth — which are not 
based, and always and everywhere based, upon facts. 

So much for our construction of the question. As the 
gentleman, however, has chosen — and with excellent judg- 
ment, as I apprehend, considering the side which he is to 
maintain — to restrict it to novels, I meet him upon that 
limitation, and contend that so far from discountenancing 
novel-reading, we should encourage it and further it — 
encourage it, precisely as any judicious person should 
encourage any other kind of reading, with proper checks 
and cautions. 

For, sir, let it be understood at the opening of this 
discussion that we are not to be forced to undertake the 
defence of novel-reading in those cases, if such there be, 
where it constitutes the sole reading of the individual. 
The confinement of oneself to the perusal of any class of 
human productions, I care not what, will perforce result 
in a one-sided, ill-balanced, unfinished person. Some 
variety is indispensable to culture, to that growth which 
should be the object of all reading. 

When, therefore, the ground is taken that novel -read- 



162 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

ing is to be discountenanced, the gentleman must mean, 
if any thing is meant, that no novel is ever to be read by 
any person. But, sir, I will not narrow the question to 
this extent. The position I assume is, that novels are to 
be read, regard being had to their class, as history is to 
be read, as biography is to be read, as poetry is to be 
read, as books of travel are to be read. In other words, 
as man's physical development is not to be secured by 
bread alone, so his mental development is to be sought 
by the perusal of a variety of intellectual productions of 
other minds, in which variety works of fiction, or novels, 
find their fitting place. 

When the gentleman essayed to delineate the novel, he 
seemed to forget that it is as broad and as deep as life 
itself— that all shades of character, both of the individual 
and of the nation, are delineated by the novelist — that it 
has been made the vehicle of social improvement, of moral 
reformation, of religious instruction ; that its pages have 
branded vice with marks as ineffaceable as any which the 
preacher or the professed moralist has used ; that virtue, 
as recognized by the great and good of Christendom, has 
been held up to reverence and regard as embodied in 
heroes and heroines, who would be models in any age or 
land. His characterization I pronounce unjust and limited 
— as unjust as would be the selection of Sir John Mande- 
ville as a fair representative of writers of travels, or of 
Hume or Gibbon as the type of a Christian historian. 

Why is it, Mr. Chairman, that the novel exercises the 
influence that it does upon the age — an influence greater 
than that of airy other work ? Is it possible that the 
false, vapid thing which the gentleman outlined exerts 
that influence? No, sir; no shadowy, vague, illusive un- 
reality could sway the mind thus ; substance and strength 
are requisite. These the novel of worth possesses in an 
eminent degree. By means of it we are brought near to 
our fellow-men, through the medium of that faculty of 
our nature — the imagination — which the Creator intended 
should be appealed to for the conve3 T ance of instruction. 
So far from minfflinsf with unreal men and women, we are 
brought in the closest possible contact with our brothers 
and sisters, fellow-toilers with us, strugglers for the saim; 
great end, sharers of a common fate, whose joys are our 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 163 

joys, whose sorrows ours. They breathe as we breathe, 
work as we fain would work, or, if haply succumbing to 
the wrong, we see, in what leads to their misdoing, pitfalls 
which we are to avoid. 

Believing the true novel, sir, to rank among the most 
valuable instrumentalities for mental culture and moral 
development, I advocate the negative of this question. 

Chairman. — The question having been opened upon 
both sides, gentlemen will follow in debate as assigned. 

Brown. — Mr. Chairman : The gentleman will pardon 
me, but he misapprehends the point we make : which is, 
in effect, that this reading of works of fiction cannot, 
from its very nature, be hedged in and confined as he 
would prescribe. Its fascination is such that the reader 
is held a willing captive ; his chains he would not break 
if he could. Such I understand to be the view taken by 
my colleague, who opened the debate. Novel-reading 
grows by what it feeds upon. The more 3*ou give, so 
much the more is desired. The habit is readily con- 
firmed; and when once you yield to the witchery of the 
spell your self-control is, as a general thing, forever 
gone. 

Nor need it surprise any that such should be the fact. 
Consider the ease with which your average work of fiction 
is perused — how one's mind floats along with the current 
of its thoughts — that no concentration of faculties is 
required — that, in short, it is read without effort and re- 
membered without trouble. 

Such works — and of this staple are the most of our 
works of fiction made up — do certainly, Mr. Chairman, 
unfit us for the active conflict of life, and should, on that 
account alone, be carefully avoided by one who would 
make of himself all that the Creator has given him oppor- 
tunity for becoming. 

Booth. — Mr Chairman : " Still harping on my daugh- 
ter !" I do not see that the gentleman just seated makes 
the discrimination upon which we insist. All works of 
fiction are not alike, any more than all men, all histories, 
ail biographies, all works upon natural science are alike. 
Of each there are all conceivable shades, from the very 
good to the utterly and deplorably worthless. As was 
insisted by my friend who preceded me upon the nega- 



164 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

tive, we are not tied to the extreme ; attention should in 
fairness, be directed to the best specimens of the class 
under discussion, know us that such works are objection- 
able, and the affirmative is maintained — otherwise not. 
Take the Waverley Novels, for instance. I contend that 
the student can obtain a more correct idea of the life of 
the times introduced therein by Scott than can be secured 
by the investigation of any and all historical documents 
bearing upon the same era. The reader is placed so com- 
pletely in communication with the characters represented, 
and those characters are so faithful to the prototypes in 
actual life upon which they are built, that we cannot but 
identify ourselves with the course of action which they 
adopt and become ourselves part and parcel of that past 
which the genius of the author so vividly, so truthfully 
portrays. The foundation of historic truth upon which 
these works rest is incorporated into our stock of infor- 
mation — incorporated, it must be remembered, in a shape 
which we can readily manage — and we thereby, I assert, 
gain more solid results than would be possible for the 
average reader from any other source. Besides, the al- 
lusions and incidental remarks made in such works lead 
us, all unconsciously, into other fields of investigation, 
in which we become eager gleaners for facts which would 
have remained forever unsought, had it not been for the 
charms of the novelist's pages. 

The very fact, sir, that — as the gentleman has stated— 
but little concentration of faculties is requisite for novel- 
reading, establishes the truth of our side of the question, 
when we take account of what material the great mass 
of readers must ever be composed — how ill-adapted for 
more labored, more solid (as some would call it) reading ; 
for, surely, if works of fiction exist which are not ob- 
jectionable upon any tenable grounds, better that they 
should be read than that nothing should be perused. 

Chase. — Mr. Chairman : I do not believe it true that 
the average man or woman is so hampered as to be 
obliged either to read works of fiction or to dispense 
with reading altogether. In these days when the press 
teems with works dealing in all conceivable subjects, 
treated in every possible manner, it is impossible that it 
should be so. lie who runs even may novv-a-days read — 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 165 

and read understanding^ too —works in almost any 
branch of intellectual effort. Think, sir, how science is 
popularized — its great truths stated and illustrated so 
that the weakest capacity can not only comprehend them, 
but will feel an interest excited which will not rest until 
questionings are pushed farther and farther, adding at 
each advance new and valuable information. 

Now, sir, not the least objection to the reading of works 
of fiction is, that it deprives the mind of this needed ali- 
ment — that it substitutes the palatable for the nutritious. 
It is imperious, exacting, as has been well asserted — 
"bearing, like the Turk, no brother near the throne." 
In this world it is easier to do wrong than to clo right ; 
and I count it among the most deplorable facts that there 
should be a class of works into the reading of which the 
young so readily glide, where they so gladly linger, when 
by doing so they shut themselves out of a range of inter- 
esting reading which is at the same time profitable — like 
Dr. Johnson's tea, cheering but not inebriating. 

Take the study of natural history, by way of illustra- 
tion of my position. Who that has seen the intense 
eagerness with which a boy listens to the crude harangue 
of the showman at a menagerie— hanging upon his every 
word, reluctant to pass on although the same monotonous 
recitation he knows is all that will compensate him foi 
remaining — who can doubt that, if in the hands of 
this bo} 7 a work on natural history adapted to his ca- 
pacity were placed, he would readily follow its lead and 
acquire therefrom tastes and aptitudes which would 
shape his whole future course for the better? And the 
same may be said of any branch of natural science, the 
study of which can be made so interesting and profitable 
that I confess to having little, if any, patience with those 
who would allow the young to feed upon the dry husks 
of novel-reading. 

Cass. — Mr. Chairman, I grant you, sir, that the greatest 
caution is requisite relative to the kind of reading which 
is placed in the hands of the young — caution bearing not 
only upon works of fiction, but as well upon works of 
every kind. Why, sir, there are professedly truthful 
works — works based upon undoubted facts — which no 
judicious parent would give to his children. But, sir. 



166 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

children do not constitute the whole of this world's in- 
habitants, and because certain restrictions may be neces- 
sary in their case, it by no means follows that we children 
of a larger growth are to be hemmed in in like manner. 
The milk for babes is exchanged, when manhood's estate 
is attained, for strong meat. 

To my mind, Mr. Chairman, the gentleman last upon 
the floor dwelt upon a small, and, comparatively speak- 
ing, insignificant department of the subject. 

Day. — Mr. Chairman : I cannot ao-ree with the gentle- 
man in his estimate of the importance of the views 
which my colleague advanced. I think no question so 
momentous as that involved in the start which shall be 
given to the young in the matter of reading. It is the 
old maxim of the twig and the tree, and we cannot well 
be too solicitous as to the bias which tender minds will 
receive from the books which they read. 

To works of fiction they will take as naturally as the 
duckling to the water, and very often, sir, with the same 
untoward issue. Such works need no digestion, but are 
at once assimilated into the mind, unlike history, philoso- 
phy and political treatises, which are comparatively 
tough and solid food. I would have the young furnished 
with reading which should require thought, that the 
discipline which is the condition of growth may com- 
mence at an early period. 

Dilks. — Mr. Chairman : The gentleman would not 
surely rob childhood of its chiefest joj^s — those inimit- 
able fairy tales which all of us remember with such 
delight, which peopled our young world with visions of 
beauty by day and b}" night — with glories which never 
set, but remain with us through life. Going back to my 
early days, I can recall nothing which so powerfully in- 
fluenced me — and for good, as I verily believe — as those 
nursery stories which I drank in from my mother's lips, 
which are associated with her at this moment in my mind, 
through the quiet splendor of which, toned down with years 
which have sped, her angel face even now looks lovingly 
upon me. 

.Believing, sir, as I do, that many a work of fiction is 
as valuable an instructor in morals, as ardent a persuasive 
to right as the world can furnish — and that more charac- 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 167 

ters have been shaped by novels than by sermons — I 
could not remain silent while such works are — as they 
have been here this evening — calumniated and traduced. 

Eames. — Mr. Chairman: Are we not wandering some- 
what from the subject? Life is too short to enable any 
of us to read every thing that has been written in by-gone 
days, that may yet be written while we are on the stage 
of action. A selection, then, must be made, and it is 
upon the nature of this selection that our question now 
hinges. 

I concur fully with the gentlemen who contend for 
a variety in reading. I would have neither the } r oung 
nor the mature bound down to one kind simply; and 
were there no other facilities for obtaining refreshment 
and recreation from the exhausting reading which in the 
main ought to claim our attention (since the elements 
of development are found in it to the highest degree) 
than what the work of fiction affords, I, sir, should most 
earnestly advocate an infusion of such reading. 

This is not, sir, in my judgment, the case. Perhaps 
nothing more distinctly stamps the present age on its 
intellectual side than the versatility displaj^ed in every 
department, by means of which all capacities are 
ministered to. Contrast, for example, the historical 
writings of a Niebuhr or an Arnold with those of a 
Rollin — of a Macaulay with those of a Robertson ; and 
it will at once be seen what new life has been imparted 
to themes which, not many years ago, were wont to be 
deemed the drvcst and most repelling. And the same 
holds good, to a greater or less extent, in every nook and 
corner of the domain of intellectual effort. The very 
novels of the da}' have been compelled to take their cue 
from this great change. The namby-pambyisms of 
scarcety more than a quarter of a century since have 
been forced to give place to a more vigorous and ener- 
getic species of writing, which professes — whatever the 
result may show — to have a definite purpose, and that a 
commendable one. 

While, sir, I see such a wide range from which to 
select — a range which will recreate and refresh as well 
as interest — outside of the acknowledged works of fiction, 
I must claim, aware as I am of the deteriorating tenden- 



168 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

ties of such reading, that it ought to be discountenanced 
in every way. Sure am I, sir, that were the novel en- 
liiely excluded, its place would be found to be better and 
more fully supplied. 

Easy. — Mr. Chairman : I must do my friend whom I 
follow the justice to say that he alone, of all the dis- 
putants who have hitherto spoken upon the affirmative, 
meets the question at issue in a manly, straightforward 
manner. I shall endeavor so to present my views, in the 
few moments which I shall occupy, as to reciprocate the 
frankness which he has shown. 

There are certain minds among adults, as well as among 
the young, which require to have their reading weighed 
out to them. From such I should certainly keep the novel, 
were it in u^ power, as also I should the profound treatise 
on political economy, or the highly-wrought imaginative 
poem. Such minds are abnormal, however ; and our dis- 
cussion does not concern them. 

If the reading of works of fiction is to be tabooed, then 
do we say that the average reader will be harmed rather 
than profited thereby. And why, Mr. Chairman ? Because 
appeal is made to the imagination alone, or for the most 
part. But has not instruction been imparted in all ages 
through such instrumentality ? Have not the wise and 
good availed themselves of it ? Did not the Great Teacher 
himself, when on earth, constantly speak to man as a 
being having imaginative facult}^ ? Shall we blot out the 
parables ? Take from the New Testament every appeal 
to this faculty of our nature, and what have you left ? 
What novelist but has dealt in the imaginative that he 
might the more deeply set home the great truths he would 
enforce ? 

Can it be, sir, that a class of w r ritings, which has been 
sanctioned by the best of all times, is to be thrown aside ? 

Fay. — Mr. Chairman : Our position appears, as the de- 
bate progresses, to be somewhat misunderstood. We do 
not maintain that no appeals to the imagination are to be 
made. We are well aware of the extreme difficulty in 
carrying on even the commonest conversation upon the 
tritest of topics without a resort lo it. What we do assert 
is, that works which are confined exclusively to such ap- 
peals are objectionable, in that they make this faculty an 
r2 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 1G9 

absorbent of all the others — that they disturb the equi- 
librium of the mind, and render us, to a certain extent — 
graduated by the intensity of our devotion to them — in- 
capable of exercising that deliberate, healthy judgment, 
which, as ; ^sponsible moral beings, we should exercise. 

Not that some works of this class may not be maiuly 
free from such injurious tendencies— for that would be to 
claim what we cannot make good ; but that the prevailing 
drift, the general tendency is bad, for the reason given. 
To this we add the undeniable fact, that this species of 
literature, more than any other, makes abject slaves of 
those who should be independent free agents. I trust 1 
have made myself understood ; and that our position, so 
stated, will be that agaiust which the attacks of the nega- 
tive are directed. 

Fisher. — Mr. Chairman : I am glad to have the position 
of the affirmative so fully set before us ; because, during 
this debate, their ground has shifted so much that I was 
unable to determine with precision what must be said. 

I differ with the gentleman in my estimate of the pro- 
portion of the healthful and the pernicious works of fiction. 
He admits that there are some whose tendency is bene- 
ficial. I claim that such is the tendency of the large ma- 
jority, especially of the productions of modern writers. 
The Christianity of the age has not been without its in- 
fluence upon these productions ; and I regard the writings 
of Dickens, of Thackeray, of Mrs. Craik, and many others, 
as entitled to be ranked among those which make theii 
readers wiser and better men. 

Good. — Mr. Chairman: The gentleman, when speaking 
in such high terms of modern writers of fiction, must 
surely have overlooked the fact that the majority of them 
are to be found among the immature and inexperienced. 
The greater part of new-fledged writers essay the novel. 
A few, indeed, dabble in poetry, mostly imitative ; but the 
novel is the port whence, as a general rule, they spread 
their sails to the breeze. 

Very many novel-writers are women — young women. 
Now, I indulge in no tirade upon the sex when I assert 
that their experience of life is not such as to make them 
safe guides. They see but little of the actual movements 
of the world, and that little is very circumscribed. Even 



170 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

when they deal, as they mostly do, with the great passion, 
love, they can only speak from their own limited experi- 
ence, if any they have, or from the confidences of female 
friends, who can never impart those shades of feeling, those 
delicate traceries of thought, which are essential to a cor- 
rect portrayal of this or any other passion of our nature. 
What is the result? Half-views of life, sentimentality 
in place of sentiment, false morality, and a train of other 
ills. Shall such writers be our Mentors, Mr. Chairman ? 

Green. — Mr. Chairman : I leave the gentleman to his 
fate at the hands of those whom he so mercilessly stig- 
matizes ; nor need he expect from me the slightest sym- 
pathy, whatever may befall him. 

Were there no other reason, Mr. Chairman, to be urged 
in behalf of works of fiction, the simple fact that they 
refresh us toilers along the world's hot and dusty thorough- 
fare, would of itself alone make me their advocate. When 
fatigued with the cares of business, wearied with the work 
of the day, what a delightful retreat they afford us ! What 
a solace amid misfortune ! How exhilarating to mingle 
in the world they disclose to our view — to chat with their 
men and their women - or, in the higher order of imagin- 
ative writings, to catch at times glimpses of what has 
never yet been seen save by the eye of faith — that bright 
side of the imagination — to bask in beauties that are 
bathed by 
"The light which never yet was seen on sea or land — 
The consecration and the poet's dream !" 

Who, Mr. Chairman, would forego that immortal poem 
to which the sightless bard, fallen on evil days, dedicated 
the full maturity of his genius — the Paradise Lost — for 
all the " over true tales " that were ever written or the 
" Stories founded on Fact" with which our Sunda3'-school 
libraries abound ? 

Hope. — Mr. Chairman : Have gentlemen never heard 
that " Truth is stranger than any fiction " ? We move in 
the midst of events which, could their impelling causes 
be thoroughly comprehended, would hold us rapt in 
wonder Were we masters of the hidden springs of even 
the most trivial actions, we should not need the aid of 
another's imagination to furnish us with food for thought 
and reflection. Indeed, did we address ourselves to the 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 171 

ousiness of life as we ought, the investigation of what 
passes for facts — naked, Gradgrind facts — would afford 
full play for every faculty of our nature, the imagination 
included. 

When I see the slight attention which is paid by the 
most to any kind of investigation — the reluctance with 
which concentration of mind is secured — the aversion to 
tracing an effect back to its cause — the shallowness which 
passes for wisdom — the superficiality which, by its un- 
blushing effrontery, looks out of sight thoroughness and 
method —all of which I do not hesitate to attribute to 
the morbid craving for such pabulum as works of fiction 
furnish — when I see all this, and contrast it with what 
should be our characteristics as rational creatures, I say 
most emphatically that 1 should greatly rejoice — and so 
would every well-wisher of his race— could every work 
of the kind under discussion be forever removed from 
sight and memory. 

Hale. — Mr. Chairman : Is it indeed true that life is to 
be devoted to hard thinking ? Must we work on, work 
ever — no relief, no holiday ? Did even the Fall include 
all this, what of us were left which were worth the in 
terest of any order of beings ? 

We need, sir, at times to avoid thought. The iron 
crown should not always pierce our temples. If w r e would 
preserve our sanity, there must be moments when we can 
yield ourselves to whatever surrounds us — when listless- 
ness may brood over us with healing in its breath — when 
freedom from the pressure of the world of mind and of 
matter may be ours to enjoy as we will. 

He who has no such moments is a visionary or a mad- 
man. Workers of fiction open the portals of such de- 
lights; and for myself, speaking of the great relief they 
have imparted to me, I say wide open, and yet wider, 
may they ever stand 1 

Ivins. — Mr. Chairman : Conceding the justice of the 
gentleman's claim, we need not resort to the pages of 
fiction for relief. Our thoughts, whether we will or not, 
are not to be avoided. It is our duty to see that the}' 
are supplied with the right materials for digestion. 

I need not, at this stage of the discussion, elaborate 
what has been alreadj' so ably and so exhaustively ad- 



172 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

vanced — namely, that works of fiction do not supply this ; 
but I will only ask your attention to the statement that 
our minds will never acquire strength, save as work is 
furnished them for their employment. What the writer 
of fiction presents is already digested and codified ; no 
effort is required of the reader ; his mind is, therefore, 
kept undisciplined, and remains dwarfed, stunted, infantile 
ever. 

Ingalls. -Mr. Chairman: A distinction must be drawn 
between protracted, sustained thought upon topics de- 
manding it, and that kind of thinking which imposes no 
such tax upon the mind, which, like the boy's whistle, 
thinks itself. 

With the former kind, every growing man and woman 
must, if true to the demands of his nature, be for the 
most time busied ; but there come moments, as has been 
so well said, when, in order to continue such a course of 
thought, we must be placed, by some means or other, in 
the latter category. 

This, we contend, the perusal of works of fiction se- 
cures for us as no other resort can. 

Chairman. — Mr. Jones will close the debate in behalf 
of the affirmative — Mr. James in- behalf of the negative. 

Jones. — Mr. Chairman — Ladies and gentlemen: After 
the patient attention with which you have honored us it 
would be trespassing too much upon your kindness, were 
I to weary you with any extended remarks at the close 
of this debate. Upon this I shall not venture. 

Bear with me but for a moment while I bring before 
you the grounds upon which we rest our advocacy of the 
affirmative. 

We contend that the perusal of works of fiction inca- 
pacitates the mind for vigorous action — tends, rather, to 
dwarf and stunt it, and renders the reader alike unwilling 
and unable to fight the good fight; that the fascination 
of such works keeps the reader constantly on the qui 
vive for further supplies of the same nature; that ample 
ministrants for the development of our imaginative fac- 
ulty, to which alone such works cater, are to be found in 
the truths of life, in those grand facts, whose laws and 
history it should be our earnest endeavor, as it is our 
highest employ, to investigate and comprehend ; that, in 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 173 

fine, when we take into consideration our high destiny— 
when we reflect that 

11 Not enjoyment and not sorrow 
Is our destined end or way; 
But to act that each to-morrow 
Find us farther than to-day " — . 

we are forced to the conclusion, from which there can be 
no escape, that the serious things about us are ample 
enough to exercise our every faculty, and that any neglect 
of such exercise — which the reading of works of fiction 
almost always occasions — defeats the primal end of our 
being. 

Entertaining these views, Mr. Chairman and ladies and 
gentlemen, we shall entreat your suffrages in behalf of 
the affirmative. 

James. — Mr. Chairman — Ladies and gentlemen : A 
word from me, and we will relieve } t ou from what, I fear, 
has proved the tedium of this debate. 

A varied reading, coupled with a careful observation, 
makes the fully-equipped man. To exclude works of 
fiction from such variety would, we maintain, be as ab 
surd and unjust as to forbid the sense of smell to a man, 
because, forsooth, he could be said to enjoy existence 
without it. To deprive us of the advantages resulting 
from the reading of works of fiction would be to cut us 
off from avenues of pleasure and instruction which the 
great and good have opened before us. Giving all due 
weight to the realities of life, there are different ways of 
presenting them, one of which is to be found in works of 
the class whose perusal we advocate. 

We cannot forget that the most gifted minds have 
thought it no unworthy employment to prepare such 
works for our perusal ; that in the experience of each of 
us, intervals occur which can be filled so satisfactorily 
by no other means — when we are led willing captives, 
kissing the silken chains which sweetly constrain — when 
11 Though inland far we be, 
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea 
Which brought us hither — 
Can in a moment travel thither, 
And see the children sport upon the shore, 
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore." 



174 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 



Appealing to the consciousness of each of you for 
the truth of our assertion, we ask you to record your- 
selves upon the negative. 

£ Chairman puts the question to the audience — decided 
majority in favor of the negative — adjournment mooed 
and carried.] 




POPULAR DIALOGUES 175 



THE ARCADIAN CLUB; 

OR, 

THEORY vs. PRACTICE. 

Dramatized from Bayard Taylor's "Experiences of the A. C*' 

DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

Mr. Shelldrake. Mrs. Shelldrakh. 

Abel Mallory. Faith Levis. 

Hollins. Pauline Ringtop. 

Enos Billings. Eunice Hazleton. 

Perkins Brown, boy of all work. 



Scene L- — Mr, Shelldrake's parlor, 

[All present engaged in animated conversation.'] 
Abel. — Yes ! I also am an Arcadian. This false dual 
existence which I have been leading will soon be merged 
into the unity of Nature. Our lives must conform to her 
sacred law. Why can't we strip off these hollow shams, 
and be our true selves, — pure, perfect, and divine! 

Miss Ringtop [heaving a sigh, and speaking in a sickly 
sentimental tone]. 

"Ah ! when wrecked are my desires 
On the everlasting Never, 
And my heart, with all its fires, 

Out forever, 
In the cradle of creation 
Finds the soul resuscitation." 
Mr. S. [turning to his wife.] — Elviry ! How many up- 
stairs rooms is there in that house down on the sound? 

Mrs. S. — Four, besides three small ones under the roof. 
Why, what made 3-ou think of that, Jesse? 

Mr. S. — I've got an idee while Abel's been talking. 
We've taken a house for the summer, down the other side 
of Bridgeport, right on the water, where there's good 



176 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

fishing, and a fine view of the sound. Now there's room 
enough for all of us, — at least all that can make it suit 
to go. Abel, you and Enos and Pauline and Eunice 
might fix matters so that we can all take the place in 
partnership and pass the summer together, living a true 
and beautiful life in the bosom of Nature. There we shall 
be perfectly free and untrammelled by the chains which 
still hang around us in Norridgeport. Yon know how 
often we have wanted to be set on some island in the 
Facific Ocean, where we could build up a true society 
right from the start. Now, here's a chance to try the 
experiment for a few months anyhow. 

Eunice [clapping her hands']. — Splendid! Arcadian! 
I'll give up my school for the summer. 

Faith L. [knitting.'] — It will hardly suit me to go. My 
home duties require my presence there. 

Miss R. — " The rainbow hues of the ideal, 

Condense to gems, and form the real." 

Abel [pushing both hands through his hair, and throw- 
ing his head back], — Oh, Nature, you have found your 
lost children ! We shall obey your neglected laws ! We 
shall hearken to your divine whispers ! We shall bring 
you back from your ignominious exile, and place you on 
your ancestral throne. 

All. — Let us do it ! By all means, let us do it ! 

Holltns. — I have an engagement to deliver lectures 
daring the summer in Ohio, but this delightful prospect 
induces me to postpone them till Fall. I could not miss 
such a sojourn in Arcadia. 

Eunice. — What shall we call the place ? 

Abel [rolling his eyes]. — Arcadia ! 

Hollins. — Then let us constitute ourselves the Arca- 
dian Club ! I think this title exceedingly appropriate. 

Enos. — In order that we may avoid gossip in case our 
plan should become generally known, suppose we only 
use the initials — the A. C. 

[General assent.] 

Abel. — Our preparations need not be extensive. But 
little change of clothing will be required. Gentlemen, 
two shirts will be enough. You can wash one of them 
any day and dry it in the sun. 

Mr. S. — There is a vegetable garden down there in 
23 



POJPULAR DIALOGUES 177 

good condition. I should think that might be our prin- 
cipal dependence with a supply of flour, potatoes and 
sugar. 

Enos. — Besides the clams. 

Eunice. — Oh, yes ! we can have chowder parties. That 
will be delighful ! 

Abel [groaning']. — Clams! Chowder! Oh, worse than 
flesh ! Will you reverence nature by outraging her first 
laws ? 

Enos. — Excuse me, I forgot. 

Eunice [mischievously]. — Ditto. 
[Exit Scene.] 

Scene II. — A pleasant cottage on the island — Perkins greets 
them at the door with a wild whoop, tossing his straw hat 
into the air — Enter Mr, and Mrs, Shelldrake, Abel, 
Hollins, Enos, Miss Ringtop and Eunice, 

Mr. S. — Here we are ! At Arcadia at last! 

[Joyful exclamations.] 
Miss R. [looking out the window]— 

" Where the turf is softest, greenest, 
Doth an angel thrust me on — 
Where the landscape lies serenest, 
In the journey of the sun." 

Eunice. — Don't, Pauline! I never like to hear poetry 
flourished in the face of nature. This landscape surpasses 
any poem in the world. Let us enjoy the best thing we 
have rather than the next best. 

Miss R. [sighing.] — Ah, yes! 'tis true: 

"They sing to the ear, this sings to the eye." 

[General unpacking ] 
Mrs. S. — Now, for our first meal in Arcadia ! 
[Mrs S. and Perkins retire to the kitchen. Eunice and 
Miss R. unpack dishes and set the table. Miss R. smiles 
as she says : " You see I also can perform the coarser tasks 
of life." Mrs. S. sends in onions, lettuce and radishes, 
which, with bread, constitute supper. No salt is allowed: 
but Perkins Mis a blacking-box lid with some for his own 



178 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

use. They seat themselves at table — Enos by the side of 
Perkins. 

Eunice [eating lettuce']. — Oh, we must send for some 
oil and vinegar. This lettuce is very nice. 

Abel [in astonishment']. — Oil and vinegar ! 

Eunice [innocently]. — Why, yes, they are both vege- 
table substances. 

Abel. — All vegetable substances are not proper for 
food. You would not taste the poison oak, or sit under 
the upas tree of Java. 

Eunice. — Well, Abel, how are we to distinguish what 
is best for us ? How are we to know what vegetables to 
choose, or what animal and mineral substances to avoid ? 

Abel [with a lofty air, touching his temple where the last 
pimple was about healed] — I will tell you. See here : 
My blood is at last pure. The struggle between the 
natural and unnatural is over, and I am beyond the 
depraved influences of my former taste. My instincts 
are now therefore entirely pure also. What is good for 
man to eat, that I shall have a natural desire to eat ; 
what is bad, will be naturally repelled. How does the 
cow distinguish between the wholesome and the poi- 
sonous herbs of the meadow? And is man less than a 
cow, that he cannot cultivate his instincts to an equal 
point ? Let me walk through the woods, and I can tell 
you every berry and root which God designed for food, 
though I know not its name and have never seen it before. 
I shall make use of my time, during our sojourn here, to 
test by my purified instincts every substance, animal, 
mineral and vegetable, upon which the human race sub- 
sists, and to create a catalogue of the true food of man. 

[Perkins dips his onion into the salt on his knee, and 
nudges Enos, who partakes slyly also. Accidentally the 
lid falls to the floor.] 

Abel [stretching his long neck across the table], — What's 
that ? 

Enos [embarrassed]. — Oh, it's — it's only— o\\\y chloride 
of sodium 

Abel. — Chloride of sodium ! What do you do with it ? 

Enos [boldly]. — Eat it with onions. It's a chemical 
substance ; but I believe it is found in some plants. 
[Eunice suppresses a lauglt.] 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 179 

Abel. — Let me taste of it. [Stretching out an onion 
Enos hands the box-lid; Abel dips the onion, bites off a 
piece and chews it gravely.] Why [turning to Eros'], it 
tastes very much like salt. 

[Perkins bursts into a spluttering yell, discharging the 
onion top between his teeth across the table. Enos and 
Eunice join in the laugh.] 

Abel [gravely]. — There's no objection to that. Let it 
appear upon our table. 

[They push back from the table, which Mrs. S. and 
Perkins clear off.] 

Holltns [leaning back lazily]. — My friends, I think we 
are sufficiently advanced in progressive ideas to establish 
our little Arcadian community upon what I consider the 
true basis ; not law, nor custom, but the uncorrupted 
impulses of our nature. What Abel said in regard to 
dietetic reform is true ; but that alone will not regenerate 
the race. We must rise superior to those conventional 
ideas whereby life is warped and crippled. Life must not 
be a prison, where each one must come and go, work, eat, 
and sleep, as the jailor commands. Labor must not be 
a necessity, but a spontaneous joy. 'Tis true, but little 
labor is required of us here : let us, therefore, have no set 
tasks, no fixed rules ; but each one work, rest, eat, sleep, 
talk or be silent, as his own nature prompts. [Perkins 
chuckles.] 

Mr. S. — That's just the notion I had when I first talked 
of our coming here. Here we're alone and unhindered, 
and if the plan shouldn't happen to work well (I don't 
see why it shouldn't though), no harm will be done. I've 
had a deal of hard work in my life, and I've been badgered 
and bullied so much by your straight-laced professors, 
that I'm glad to get away from the world for a spell and 
talk and do rationally without being laughed at. 

Hollins. — Yes, and if we succeed, as I feel we shall, 
for I think I know the hearts of all of us here, this may 
be the commencement of a new epoch for the world. 
We may become the turning-point between two dispen- 
sations ; behind us every thing false and unnatural— 
before us every thing true, beautiful and good. 

Miss R. [sighing.] — Ah, it reminds me of Gamaliel J, 
Gauthrop's beautiful lines : 



180 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

" Unrobed man is lying hoary 
In the distance gray and dead, 

There no wreaths of godless glory, 
To his mist-like tresses wed ; 

And the foot-fall of the ages 

Keigns supreme with noiseless tread." 

Enos. — I am willing to try the experiment ; but don't 
you think we had better observe some kind of order, even 
in yielding every thing to impulse? Shouldn't there be, 
at least, a platform, as the politicians call it — an agree- 
ment by which we shall all be bound, and which we can 
afterwards exhibit as the basis of our success ? 

Holltns. — I think not. It resembles too much the 
thing we are trying to overthrow. Can you bind a man's 
belief by making him sign certain articles of faith ? No, 
his thought will be free in spite of it. Let each one only 
be true to himself, be himself, act himself, or herself, with 
the uttermost candor. We can all agree upon that. 
[Exit scene.'] 

Scene III. — An obscure grocery with the sign Water 
Crackers — A woman at the counter — Enos and Abel, 
walking in front of it, enter — Abel goes sniffing round, 
pausing over some smoked herring. 

Abel. — Enos, I think herring must feed on sea-weed. 
There is such a vegetable attraction about them. [Next 
smells a Rhode Island cheese."] Enos, this impresses me 
like flowers — like marigolds. It must be [sniffs again 
and again], really — 3 7 es, the vegetable element is pre- 
dominant. My instinct towards it is so strong that I can- 
not be mistaken. May I taste it, ma'am ? [ The woman 
dices off a thin corner and presents it to him on the knife. 
He tastes it.] Delicious ! I am right. This is the True 
Food. Give me two pounds of cheese and a pound of 
water crackers, ma'am. 

[Outside.] 

Abel. — Let us sit down a little while, Enos. Will you 
have some of this cheese ? 

Enos. — No, thank you [sits down and takes a book from 
his pocket and reads]. 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 181 

Abel. — My natural instincts towards it are so strong 
that I cannot resist longer [eats ravenously, cutting off 
slice after slice]. Oh, Enos, it is glorious to possess 
such purified instincts ; to know to a certainty exactly 
what is good for us to eat — [suddenly leans back and 
groans — having eaten the two pounds, or appeared to — 
writhes in severe pain~\. 

Enos [looking up from his book"]. — What is the matter, 
man ? Are you sick ? 

Abel. — Terribly sick! Oh! ooh ! ooh! [attempts to 
get up, but is not able.] 

Enos [chuckling to himself]. — Shall I go for a doctor? 

Abel. — Wait! I shall be better. Oh, clear! oh! oh! 
[shows signs of nausea — Enos holds him up.~\ 

Enos [aside].— His instincts are strong— stronger than 
his poor stomach ! 

[Curtain falls.] 



Scene IV. — J sitting-room — The members of the A. C. as- 
sembled for reading — Holiins reading aloud from Bulwer. 

Hollins. — "Ah, behind the veil ! We see the summer 
smile of the earth ! Enamelled meadow and limpid stream ; 
but what hides she in her sunless heart ? Caverns of ser- 
pents or grottoes of priceless gems ? Youth, whose 
soul sits on thy countenance, thyself wearing no mask, 
strive not to lift the mask of others ! Be content with 
what thou seest, and wait till time and experience shall 
teach thee to find jealousy behind the sweet smile, and 
hatred under the hoiked word." 

Miss K. [in a sing-song voice.] 

" I look beyond thy brow's concealment, 
I see thy spirit's dark revealment, 
Thy inner-self betrayed I see, 
Thy coward, craven, shivering Me !" 

Hollins. — We think we know one another, but do we ? 
We see the faults of others, their weaknesses, their disa- 
greeable qualities, and we keep silent. How much we 
should gain, were candor as universal as concealment. 
Then each one, seeing himself as others see him, would 



182 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

truly know himself. How much misunderstanding might 
he avoided, how much hidden shame be removed, hope- 
less, because unspoken, love made glad — in short, how 
much brighter and happier the world would become, if 
each one expressed everywhere and at all times his true 
and entire feeling. Why, even evil would lose half its 
power. Come [turning to Enos], why should not this 
candor be adopted in our Arcadia ? Will any one — will 
3^ou, Enos — commence at once by telling me, now, to my 
face, my principal faults ? 

Enos [thinking for a moment~\. — You have a great deal 
of intellectual arrogance, and you are plrysically very 
indolent. 

Hollins [with surprise"]. — Well put! though I do not 
say that you are entirely correct. Now what are my 
merits ? 

Enos. — You are clear-sighted, an earnest seeker after 
truth, and courageous in the avowal of your thoughts. 

Abel [looking shyly at Hollins']. — Do you know that I 
begin to think beer must be a natural beverage ? There 
was an auction in the village to-day, as I passed through, 
and I stopped at a cake-stand to get a glass of water, as 
it was very hot There was no water— only beer; so I 
thought 1 would try a glass, simply as an experiment. 
Really, the flavor was very agreable. And it occurred to 
me, on the way home, that all the elements contained in 
beer are vegetable. Besides, fermentation is a natural 
process. I think the question has never been properly 
tested before. 

Hollins. — But the alcohol ! 

Abel. — I could not distinguish any, either by taste or 
smell. I know that chemical analysis is said to show it ; 
but may not the alcohol be created, somehow, during the 
analysis ? 

Hollins. — Abel, you will never be a reformer until you 
possess some of the commonest elements of knowledge. 

Abel [sarcastically]. — Commonest elements of knowl- 
edge! Hollins, your mind is material and grovelling. 
But I disdain to say more. Perkins, bring up three bottles 
of that beer I put in the cellar. [Perkins obeys, bringing 
the bottles and glasses. Abel drinks one bottle at a draugJU, 
and offers the beer around. All refuse, but Hollins and 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 183 

Shelldrake, who divide a bottle."] The effect of beer de- 
pends, I think, on the commixture of the nourishing prin- 
ciple of the grain with the cooling properties of the water. 
Perhaps, hereafter, a liquid food of the same character 
may be invented which shall save us from mastication and 
all the diseases of the teeth. 

Abel [getting tipsy]. — Oh, sing, somebody I The night 
was made for song ! 

Miss R. [in a screeching voice] — 

11 When stars are in the quiet skies, 
Then most I pine for thee ; 
Bend on me, then, thy loving eyes, 
As stars bend on the sea." 

Abel. — Candor's the order of the day, isn't it? 

Hollins. — Yes ! yes ! 

Miss R. — Certainly. 

Abel. — Well, then, candidly, Pauline, you've got the 
darn'dest squeaky voice 

[Miss Ringtop gives a faint scream of horror.] 

Abel. — Oh, never mind ! We act according to impulse, 
don't we ? And I've the impulse to swear ! and it's right ! 
Let Nature have her way ! Listen ! Darn it ! darn it ! 
darn it ! darn it ! I never knew it was so easy. Why, 
there's a pleasure in it ! Try it, Pauline ! try it on me ! 

Miss R. — Oh! ooh! ooh ! 

Hollins. — Abel! Abel ! the beer's got into your head. 

Abel. — No, it isn't beer — it's candor ! It's your own 
proposal, Hollins. Suppose it's evil to swear : isn't it 
better I should express it, and be done with it, than keep 
it bottled up to ferment in my mind ? Oh, you're a pre- 
cious consistent old humbug, you are ! \_Ee jumps up, 
and goes off dancing, singing:] 

" 'Tis home where'er the heart is." 

Eunice [in alarm]. — Oh, he may fall into the water ! 

Shelldrake. — He's not fool enough to do that. His 
head is a little light — that's all. The air will cool hira 
down presently. 

[Exit Scene.] 



184 POPULAR DIALOGUES 



Scene V. — A garden — Abel and Eunice present — Enos 
looking on unobserved. 

Eunice. — Come, Abel, please do not go so near the 
water. 

Abel [catching Eunice's arm and holding her"]. — This 
is fate — destiny. Ah, Eunice, ask the night and the 
moon, ask the impulse which told you to follow me ! Let 
us be candid, like the old Arcadians we imitate. [Eunice 
starts and endeavors to leave.] Eunice, we know that we 
love each other, why should we conceal it any longer ? 
Let us confess to each other. The female heart should 
not be timid in this pure and beautiful atmosphere of 
love which we breathe. Come, Eunice, we are alone ; 
let your heart speak to me. 

Eunice. — J will not hear such language. Let me go 
back to the house. 

Abel [groaning]. — Oh, Eunice, don't you love me, in- 
deed ? [unloosens his hold.] I love you— from my heart 
I do. Yes, I love you. Tell me how you feel towards 
me. 

Eunice [earnestly]. — I feel towards you only as a 
friend ; and if you wish me to retain a friendly interest 
in you, you must never again talk in this manner. I do 
not love you, and I never shall. Let me go back to the 
house. 

Abel [groaning]. — Oh, Eunice, you have broken my 
heart ! [sits down, covers his face with his hands and begins 
to cry.] 

Eunice. — I am very sorry, Abel, but I cannot help it. 
[Exit Eunice and Abel] 

[Enos comes forward — sitting down and meditating — . 
Miss Ringtop enters and takes a seat at his side, shake? 
back her long curls and sighs, looking at the moon.] 

Miss R. [in a sentimental voice.] — Oh, how delicious! 
How it seems to set the spirit free, and we wander off on 
the wings of fancy to other spheres. 

Enos. — Yes, it is very beautiful, but sad when one's 
alone. 

Miss R. — How inadequate is language to express the 
emotions which such a scene calls up in the bosom. 



POPULAK DIALOGUES 185 

Poetry alone is the voice of the spiritual world, and we, 
who are not poets, must borrow the language of the 
gifted sons of song. Oh, Enos, I wish, you were a poet! 
But you feel poetry, I know you do. I have seen it in 
your eyes when I quoted the burning lines of Adeliza 
Kelly, or the soul breathings of Gamaliel J. Gauthrop. 
In him particularly I find the voice of my own nature. 
Do you know his "Night Whispers ?" How it embodies 
the feeling of such a scene as this ! 

" Star drooping bowers, bending down the spaces, 
And moonlit glories sweep star-footed on." 

Ah, this is an hour for the soul to unveil its most secret 
chambers ! Do you not think, Enos, that love rises su- 
perior to all conventionalities ? that those whose souls 
are in unison should be allowed to reveal themselves to 
each other regardless of the world's opinions ? 

Enos. — Yes. 

Miss R. [in a tender voice.'] — Enos, do you understand 
me 1 

Enos. — Yes. 

Miss R. — Then our hearts are wholly in unison. I 
know you are true, Enos. I know your noble nature 
and I will never doubt } T ou. This is indeed happiness. 

"Life remits his tortures cruel, 
Love illumes his fairest fuel, 
When the hearts that once were dual, 
Meet as one in sweet renewal." 

[Lays her head on his shoulder.] 

Enos [starting away from her in alarm]. — Miss Ring- 
top, you don't mean — that 

Miss R. — Yes, Enos, dear Enos, henceforth we belong 
to each other. 

Enos [greatly agitated']. — You mistake — I did not mean 
that — 1 didn't understand you. Don't talk to me in that 
way! Don't look at me that way, Miss Ringtop ! We 

were never meant for each other ! I wasn't you are 

so much older — I mean different. It can't be — no, it can 
never be 1 I never thought of such a thing! Let us go 
back to the house — the night is cold. 
[Exit Enos.~\ 



186 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

Miss R. [singing disconsolately :] 

" The dream is past, the hope has fled, 
Love's fairest flowers lie crushed and dead." 
[Exit scene.~\ 

Scene VI. — A room at Shelldrake' s — Mr. and Mrs. Shell- 
drake, Abel ana Hollins engaged in loud conversation — 
Perkins Brown sitting on a low step. 

Hollins. — Now, are you sure you can bear the test ? 

Shelldrake. — Bear it? Why, to be sure ! If I couldn't 
bear it, or if you couldn't, your theory's done for. Try I 
I can stand it as long as you can. 

[Enos and Eunice enter, hand-in-hand, unobserved.] 

Hollins. — Well, then, I think you a veiy ordinary man. 
I derive no intellectual benefit from my intercourse with 
3^ou ; but your house is convenient to me. I'm under no 
obligations for your hospitality, however, because my 
company is an advantage to you. Indeed, if I were 
treated according to my deserts, you couldn't do enough 
for me. 

Mrs. S. [wrathfully.~\ — Indeed! I think you get as 
good as you deserve, and more too. 

Hollins [with a condescending look]. — Elvira, I have 
no doubt you think so, for your mind belongs to the lowest 
and most material sphere. You have your place in na- 
ture, and you fill it ; but it is not for you to judge of in- 
telligences that move only on the upper planes. 

Shelldrake. — Hollins, Elviry's a good wife and a 
sensible woman, and I won't allow you to turn up your 
nose at her. 

Hollins. — I am not surprised that you should fail to 
bear the test. I didn't expect it. 

Shelldrake. — Let me try it on you. You, now, have 
some intellect ; I don't deny that ; but not so much, by a 
long shot, as you think you have. Besides that, you're 
awfully selfish in your opinions. You won't admit that 
anybody can be right who differs from you. You've 
sponged on me for a long time; but I suppose I've 
learned something from you, so we'll call it even. I 
think, however, that what you call acting according to 
impulse is simply an excuse to cover your own laziness. 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 187 

Perkins [jumping up]. — Gosh ! that's it ! Ho ! ho ! 
ho! 

Hollins [exasperated]. — Shelldrake, I pity you. I 
always knew your ignorance, but I thought you honest 
in your human character. I never suspected you of envy 
and malice. However, the true reformer must expect to 
be misunderstood and misrepresented by meaner minds. 
That love which I bear to all creatures teaches me to 
forgive you. Without such love, all plans of progress 
must fail. Is it not so, Abel? 

Shelldrake [contemptuously]. — Pity! Forgive! 

Mrs. S. [rocking violently in her chair.] — Ts, ts, ts, 
ts, ts! 

Abel. — Love ! There is no love in the world. Where 
will you find it? Tell me, and I'll go there. Love ! I'd 
like to see it ! If all human hearts were like mine, we 
might have an Arcadia; but most men have no hearts. 
The world is a miserable, hollow, deceitful shell of vanity 
and hypocrisy I No, let us give up. We were born before 
our time. This age is not worthy of us. 
[Hollins stares.] 

Shelldrake. — Well, what next ? 

Enos. — M/y friends, let the disgraceful scene we have 
just witnessed terminate our foolish experiment. Our 
Arcadia has proved a failure. Let us go back to the 
world from which we have so foolishly sought to divorce 
ourselves, satisfied that it is only in human intercourse 
with the many, and not the exclusive few, that we are to 
attain the greatest degree of happiness. For my part, I 
shall leave to-morrow, and Eunice has promised to go 
with me. Be assured that if the true Arcadia ever breaks 
upon our vision, we shall enter it through the gates of 
home comfort and domestic happiness. 
[ Curtain falls.] 



188 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

THE TOWN MEETING. 

CHARACTERS. 

'Squire Fungus, Moderator. 
Jotham Scribble, Clerk. 



Dr. Borax, \ 
Deacon Whimper, \ 
'Squire Gump, J 


/Mr. Digger^ 
/ Mr Grovel, 
\ Mr. Scripture, 


Mr. Timms, ( ~. . J Mr. Carpenter, 

iv/r t? > Citizens. < at r 

Mr. r ussy, ( Mr. Foreman, 

Mr. Lawyer, \ / Mr. Twaddle, 

Mr. Oldtime, 1 \ Mr. Twitter, 

Mr. Willing, / ^Mr. Watts, 



A hall, with men and boys in great confusion. Groups in 
earnest conversation. 

Citizen [taking off hat and mounting a bench speaks 
loudly to insure a hearing"]. — Fellow-citizens ! As it is 
the hour named for the meeting [Cries of "No!" — " No !" 
— " Wants five minutes !"— " All right !"— " Go ahead !"] 
— the hour named for the meeting, I move that 'Squire 
Fundus act as Moderator. [Cries of "No I" — "No !" — 
" Di\ Borax !"— " Deacon Whimper!"] 

Another. — I second the nomination. 

First Cit. — Those in favor of 'Squire Fungus acting 
as Moderator of this meeting will give their assent by 
saying " Aye." [Shouts of "Aye !"— " Aye 1"] Contrary- 
minded will say " No !" [Shouts, but fainter, of " No I" 

— No !"] The a}^es have it, and 'Squire Fungus 

[ Cries of" Doubted !"— " Doubted !"— "Count the vote !"] 
The vote is doubted ! All will please be seated ! [After 
some disorder the citizens take seats."] Those in favor of 
'Squire Fungus acting as Moderator will please rise and 
remain standing until they can be counted. [Cries of 
"All up !"— " Sit down, Smith !"— " You've no vote !"— 
" Up ! Up !" — " Down — down !" Citizen points with finger 
and counts aloud.] Twenty-four ayes. Those opposed 



POPULAR DIALOGUES l89 

will p.ease to rise and remain standing till counted. [Ayes 
sit. Noes rise in confusion. Citizen counts as before.] 
Eleven noes. [Noes sit.] The ayes have it, and 'Squire 
Fungus is elected Moderator of this meeting. 'Squire, 
will you please take the chair ? 

Moderator. — 1 thank you, friends and fellow-citizens, 
for the honor which } r ou have conferred upon me, and 
will try to discharge the duties of my position so as to 
meet your approbation. To complete the organization a 
Clerk will be necessary. Will some gentleman make a 
nomination ? 

Third Cit. — I nominate Jotham Scribble. 

[Seconded, put and carried. Clerk takes seat."] 

Moderator. — The Clerk will read the call for this 
meeting. 

Clerk [reads']. — The legal voters of the town of 
Epsom are hereby warned to meet in special town-meet- 
ing (a petition to that effect having been preferred to us 
in writing signed by Nathan Nute and thirteen others, 
legal voters of said town), at the Town Hall, on Wednes- 
day, the sixteenth day of October, A. D. 18 — , at three 
o'clock p. m., to take into consideration the following 
question : Shall the Board of Supervisors be directed to 
appropriate a sum of money for the purpose of building 
a new school-house in said town; if so, what sum shall 
be appropriated ? 

(feigned) William Watts, 

Robert Going, 
Majority of the Board of Supervisors 

Given under our hands this Sept. 20, 18 — . 

Moderator. — Gentlemen, you have heard the call for 
this meeting read. What action will 3 r ou now take upon 
it? [Several citizens spring to the floor, shouting "Mr. 
Moderator I" — "Mr. Moderator I" and endeavor to catch 
the Moderator's eye.] Gentlemen [rapping earnestly], 
you must preserve order, or we cannot proceed with our 
deliberations ! Let me urge upon you now the importance 
of conducting our proceedings with dignity and decorum. 
I recognized Mr Timms first — Mr. Timms has the floor. 
[Best seat themselves.] 



190 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

Timms. — I move, Mr. Moderator, that this meeting do 
now adjourn. [Cries of " Second the motion !"] 

Fussy. — Mr. Moderator, I move that we proceed to 
business to once't. [" Second that !"] 

Moderator. — A motion to adjourn is before the meet- 
ing, which takes precedence of every other. 

Fussy. — I want to be heerd a bit on that are motion. 

Moderator [rapping']. — A motion to adjourn is not 
debatable. I will put the motion. 

[Motion put and lost by a decisive vote."] 

Fussy. — Mr. Moderator. 

Moderator. — Mr. Fussy has the floor. 

Fussy. — I now put forward my motion agin that we 
go to work about the business that we're here for. I for 
one don't want to be foolm' away my time here the whole 
arternoon doin' nothin'. I say let's git to work and do 
what we're a-goin' to, and then git hum. 

Moderator. — Will the gentleman be good enough to 
reduce his motion to writing, or at least put it in such a 
shape that the Chair can submit it to the meeting ? 

Lawyer. — Mr. Moderator ! 

Moderator. — Mr. Lawyer has the floor. 

Lawyer. — I believe, Mr. Moderator, that the gentle- 
man's motion did not obtain a second. Am I right, sir? 

Moderator. — You are right — perfectly right — Mr. 
Lawyer. 

Lawyer— Then, sir, according to parliamentary law, 
there is no motion before the meeting. 

Moderator. — None, sir, whatever. 

Lawyer. — Then, sir, I beg leave to offer the following : 
[reading] Resolved, That the Board of Supercixors be 

instructed to ap]>ropriate the sum of dollars for the 

erection of a new school-house ; said school-house to be 
erected as soon as possible, and that its location be left to 
the judgment of said Board. I . move you, sir, that this 
resolution be adopted. [Lawyer hands motion to the 
Moderator.] 

Citizen. — I second the motion. 

Lawyer [recognized by Moderator]. — I offer this reso- 
lution, sir, for the purpose of testing the sense of this. 
meeting. It will be observed that four distinct proposi- 
tions are embraced in my resolution. 1st, Shall a new 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 191 

school-house be built? 2d, If yea, at what cost? 3d, 
Shall it be built at once ? and 4th. Shall the Supervisors 
settle the location of the building? 

1 am indifferent as to the shape which the discussion 
may assume ; for I suppose I do not err when I speak of a 
discussion as likely to ensue — [" Certainly not !" " We'll 
discuss it 1" Moderator raps and calls " Order, gentlemen, 
order 1"] — I thought my experience in this town was not 
so far at fault. Well, then, sir, as the matter will, I can- 
not doubt, be thoroughly ventilated by the able gentle- 
men whom I see all around me, I would propose, as a 
matter of convenience and for the sake of expediting 
business, that my resolution be divided, and I call for 
the reading of the first section. 

Moderator. — T he clerk will read the first section of 
the resolution before the meeting. 

Clerk [reads']. — Resolved, That the Board of Super- 
visors be instructed to appropriate the sum of dollars 

for the erection of a new school-house. 

Lawyer [recognized']. — This presents the first point for 
our consideration : Shall we build a new school-house ? 
If this meeting shall agree to this, we can then decide as 
to the sum which shall be inserted in the blank. 

Upon this question, Mr. Moderator, I have simply to 
sscy here in open town-meeting what I have said upon so 
many occasions in private, that I am strongly in favor of 
the new building. The affair which now stands us instead 
of a school-house is a nuisance, an eye-sore, and a dis- 
grace to any community. 

Oldtime [recognized]. — Well, sir, Mr. Moderator, I go 
agin the new buildm'. Ain't our taxes hefty enough now, 
I should like to know? My boys and gals were edecated 
in the school-house which we have, and ef it was good 
enough for them, I don't kno*v why it ain't good enough 
for other folkses' children. 1 should like to know where 
on airth the money 's to come from. People come into 
our town with scarcely a shirt to their backs and their 
heads crammed full of new-fangled notions, and think 
they 've nothin' to do but to vote away the money of us 
old residenters. I declare to you, Mr. Moderator, ef this 
kind o' carryins-on don't stop pooty soon, I'm goin' to 
move outer town. 1 can't stand it much longer. Why 



192 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

don't you fix up the school-house you have now? What 
are you a-goin' to do with it ef you build another ? Use 
it for kindlin', I s'pose, for some of those new-comers 
who can't aim enough to keep their fingers warm, and so 
have to eenamost, if not quite, steal their fires. Where's 
your money comin' from ? How many among them as '11 
vote for the new buildin' will have to pay any taxes on 
it ? I'd like to have them as favors it show their hands. 
Here's mine [taking a tax-bill from his wallet, exhibiting 
if] — and it's receipted — nineteen dollars and sixty-four 
cents. Let's hear how much you new-builclin' voters can 
say for yourselves as to payin' taxes. That's what we 
property-owners want. 

Willing [recognized]. — If the money-question is to be 
so persistently thrust into our faces, I am ready to meet 
it here and everywhere. I say, sir, it is a burning shame 
that a town which has assessed taxable property amount- 
ing to nearly a million of dollars — nine hundred and 
ninety-seven thousand three hundred and fifty dollars' 
worth, to be exact — for a town of such wealth to stand 
higgling about putting up a decent, comely building in 
place of the shell we now have — which I wouldn't so 
insult rny Suffolk pig as to offer to put him in— to hear the 
palaver and the howlings that have been made is enough 
to make some other people anxious to get out of town. 

For three successive town-meetings, now, we've had 
this matter staved off, and on the most parsimonious 
grounds. I am disgusted with it, for my part ; and I say 
now that we'll fight this matter through till we carry our 
point, if it has to come before every town-meeting that 
is held while one of us lives. I've no children to educate, 
as you all know ; but when my children did go to school, 
I would never have suffered them to stay a day in such a 
rattle-trap as that concern some of you call a school- 
house, if I'd had to build one out of my own pocket. 

Ail this talk about taxes is neither here nor there. The 
children of this town, whether of rich parents or of poor 
parents, must be educated; and we are in honor bound, 
as civilized Christian men, to furnish them with a com- 
fortable building. I despise this whining in one breath 
and bragging in the next about the amount of taxes paid. 
If no one in favor of a new school-house paid a dollar of 

24 



POrULAR DIALOGUES 193 

taxes, I should still vote for it. Whether I pay any tax 
or not, 3 t ou can any of you very easily ascertain. 

Digger [recognized']. — I don't see, Mr. Moderator, as 
there's any need of anybody's gittin' putcheky about 
this business. I b'lieve this is a free country, and a man 
can say what he thinks about this business, whether it 
agrees with the big bugs' notions or not. That's my kink, 
anyhow. Some folks [looking at Willing] can let on's 
much as they please 'bout bavin 7 no children to edecate 
and the like o' that; but, then agin, some other folks have 
hearn of sich things in this world as some folks gittin' mar- 
ried agin — and then what about our new school-house? 

I think, too, it's 'bout right not makin' a heap of dif- 
ference as to whether 30U pay much tax or not. I don't 
pay any more than I can help — and that's little enough, 
you all oughter know — but I ain't a-goin 7 to encourage 
my children to put on stuck-up airs as they will, sartin 
sure, if they're a-goin 7 into a bran-new gimcrack of a 
school-house, when the one they go to now's better than 
I ever seed when I's a boy, though I didn't go to school 
much. I tell you, Mr. Moderator, I'm down on this 
stuck-up business, and naterally I'm down on the new 
school-house. 

Grovel [recognized]. — Mr. Moderator: All I've got to 
say is, ef folks are so pesky anxious to git a better school- 
house and the heft of the town don't want it nohow, 
why don't they stop their braggin' 'bout what they'd do 
and what they wouldn't do and set about buildin 7 a 
buildin' to suit themselves and pay for it, like men, outer 
their own pockets? I've got a lot o' ground I'd sell 'em 
at a reasonable figger ; and I guess some of my neighbors 
has, too, who don't want no buildin' neither. 

Scripture. — Mr. Moderator: As clergyman of this 
parish and Chairman of your School Board, to which latter 
position you have elected me for so many years, I regret 
exceedingly the personal turn which this discussion is 
taking. Let us, Mr. Moderator, approach this matter in 
a calm, dispassionate manner. Crimination and recrimi- 
nation can do no good. Do let us act as brethren in talk- 
ing about a matter which so deeply concerns us all as 
children of a common Father. I need not give this meet- 
ing my views upon this question. You all know them, 



194 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

since 1 have submitted tliem at length to you in my 
annual report for the past five years. 

Foreman [recognized']. — I've been turnin' this matter 
over in my mind consid'ble, Mr. Moderator, since we had 
the last town-meetin' on it, and I've about concluded that 
I've been wrong, in opposin' the new building [" Shame! 
Shame I" from the opposition'], and I shall vote for it 
to-day. 

Carpenter [recognized]. — Me, too, Mr. Moderator, if 
they do cry " shame I" I own up I am ashamed of havin' 
been led by the nose so long by sich critters, and I'm in 
for the new school-house arter this, from Genesis to Rever- 
lation. 

Twaddle [recognized]. — Mr. Moderator, bein' that I've 
no job to git by the new buildin' [looking at Foreman and 
Carpenter'], I shall stick to my principles and vote " no" 
every pop. 

[Lull in the debate.] 

Moderator. — Has any gentleman any further remarks 
upon the question as divided ? If not, the chair will put 
the question. 

Twitter [recognized]. — Mr. Moderator, I jest want to 
give fair notice now, that ef we're voted down — which I 
don't cal'late on - we shall take out a conjunction to stop 
your proceedin's. 

[ Cries of " Question ! Question !"] 

Moderator. — The question is called for. [" Read it ! 
read it !" " Let's know what we're votin' on !"] If gen- 
tlemen will preserve order [rapping], the Clerk will read 
the section of the question before the meeting. 

Clerk [reads]. — " Resolved, That the Board of Super- 
visors be instructed to appropriate the sum of dollars 
for the erection of a new school-house. 

Moderator. — As many as are in favor of the question 
as read [" Standing' vote — standing vote !"] will rise and 
remain until the}' are counted. [Ayes rise, and Clerk 
counts.] Be seated, gentlemen. Those opposed will rise. 
[Noes rise, and Clerk counts.] The question's carried — 
twenty ayes to fifteen noes. 

Lawyer. — Mr. Moderator, I move that the blank in the 
section adopted be filled by the insertion of the words 
"five thousand." 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 



195 



[" Oh — oh !" from opposition.'] 

Willing. — I second the motion. 

Moderator. — The question is before you, gentlemen. 
Any remarks upon it ? 

Fussy [recognized]. — Reelly, Mr. Moderator, I voted for 
the new buildin', but this looks like pooty tall figgering. 
I think we ought to git a good 'un for a power less money. 
I move we say a thousand dollars, 

Digger. — I second that thousand. 

Oldtime. — Goodness gracious, Mr. Moderator, where 
are we drivin' to ? Five thousan' dollars for a school- 
house! Wh}^ my whole farm ain't worth mor'n four 
to-day. If we must have a buildin', let's not be onrea- 
sonin'-like 'bout it. I move we make it five hundred. 

Fussy. — I second that motion. 

Twaddle. — I move we make it three. 

[" Question— question /"] 

Moderator. — Let us understand the question. Mr. 
Lawyer moves to fill the blank with the words "five 
thousand", so that the Board, if that carries, will be 
instructed to appropriate five thousand dollars for the 
erection of the building ; Mr. Fussy moves to amend by 
inserting one thousand dollars ; Mr. Oldtime moves to 
amend by inserting five hundred dollars ; Mr. Twaddle 
moves for three, but his motion did not obtain a second : 
— Mr. Lawyer, do you accept either amendment — that of 
Mr. Fussy, or that of Mr. Oldtime ? 

Lawyer. — No, Mr. Moderator, I cannot. If we are to 
have a building, let us by all means have one which shall 
be an ornament to the town. We should build not merely 
for to-day, but, so far as we can anticipate, for the wants 
of the future inhabitants of our town. I have consulted 
with experienced builders about the matter, and I am 
satisfied that the sum I have named is the least for which, 
at present prices of materials and labor, we can procure 
such a building as we need. And allow me to express 
my surprise, Mr. Moderator, before resuming my seat, 
that any who earnestly favor the new building should 
name such paltry sums as have been mentioned in our 
hearing. That an opponent of the measure should ad- 
vocate a mere pittance, I can understand ; but why any 
friend should do it is to me inexplicable. It wears very 



196 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

much an Ensign-Stebbins' garb. He, you may remember, 
Mr. Moderator, was in favor of the Maine Liquor Law, 
but opposed to its being put in force. 

Fussy. — If Mr. Lawyer means me, I don't know why I 
hain't as much right to n^ 'pinion as he has to his'n, 
ef he did make the motion. 

Moderator. — The question will first be put upon the 
smallest sum — five hundred. [Motion put and lost.] Next 
upon one thousand dollars. [Same result.'] Lastly upon 
the original sum, five thousand dollars. [Same result, to 
the evident surprise of the Moderator and others.] 

'Squire Gump. — Mr. Mod-e-ra-tor ! 

Moderator — 'Squire Gump has the floor. 

'Squire — Mist-er Mod-e-ra-tor! When I was in the 
Le-gis-la-ter, sir — hem [clearing throat] — such things fre- 
quently happened, sir. Now, sir — hem — we've voted down 
each and every sum named. As a compromise, Mr. 
Moderator, I propose that the blank be filled with the 
words "three thousand," sir — hem! That hits about 
'twixt wind and water — hem — and in the Le-gis-la-ter, 
sir, I never knew it to fail — hem ! 

Lawyer. — I second the motion. 

Moderator. — Are you ready for the question ? [Put 
and carried.] 

Lawyer [recognized]. — I now call for the reading of 
the second section of the resolution. 

Moderator. — The Clerk will read the second section 
as divided; 

Clerk [reads]. — Said school-house to be erected as soon 
as possible. 

Lawyer [recognized]. — As, after the previous votes, 
there can be hardly any doubt as to this section carrying, 
I move its adoption without discussion. 

Willing. — I second the motion. " If when 'twere done 
'twere well done, then 'twere well 'twere done quickly." 
Pon't Shakspeare say something like that ? 

Oldtime [from his seat]. — What's he got to do with 
the new school-house, I'd like to know? 

Moderator. — Are you ready for the question ? ["Ques- 
tion 1" — " Question I" Put and carried.] 

Lawyer [recognized]. — And now, Mr. Moderator, I call 
for the reading of the third and last section. 



I 



POPULAR DIALOGUES 197 

Clerk [at the direction of Moderator reads]. — And that 
its location be left to the judgment of said Board. 

Lawyer. — I move its adoption, Mr. Moderator. 

Carpenter. — I second the motion. 

Moderator. — The section as read is before you, gentle- 
men. Has any one any thing to say upon it before the 
question is put to the meeting ? 

Dr. Borax. — Mr. Moderator ! 

Moderator. — Dr. Borax has the floor. 

Borax. — I have remained silent, Mr. Moderator, during, 
our deliberations up to this point ; but I am compelled to 
declare my dissent from this section. There is no reason 
why we should not fix the location ourselves here is 
town-meeting assembled. Why leave it to the Board ot 
Supervisors, each member of which has property which 
he would like to dispose of for this purpose ? 

Willing [interrupting]. — If the Doctor will allow me, 
are we not all in the same predicament ? How can we 
hope to arrange it here, then ? 

Borax. — Well, then, Mr. Moderator, why not vote to 
have the building located in the centre of the town? 
This will accommodate a greater number, certainly, than 
any other location can. 

Lawyer. — Begging the Doctor's pardon, Mr. Moder- 
ator — but would he locate at the geographical centre or 
at the centre of population ? 

Borax. — At the centre of population, certainly. 

Lawyer. — Then — asking the Doctor's pardon again for 
my interruption — should we be providing for the necessi- 
ties of the future, as wise men ought ? 

Borax. — Why not, Mr. Moderator, leave the whole 
matter in the hands of a Committee ? It does rest in my 
mind that the plan proposed is not the best one, though 
I do not wish to seem captious. 

Whimper. — Mr. Moderator I 

Moderator. — Deacon Whimper has the floor. 

Whimper. — I think, Mr. Moderator, the location had 
best be put in hands of the School Board. 

Scripture. — Mr. Moderator I 

Moderator. — Rev. Mr. Scripture has the floor. 
Scripture. — As Chairman of the School Board, Mr. 
Moderator, I must, in behalf of my colleague, decline in 



198 POPULAR DIALOGUES 

advance any such responsibility as the worthy Deacon 
suggests. We are too well aware of the thankless nature 
of such a task to care to take such a burden upon our- 
selves. Fix upon the location here, leave it to the super- 
visors, or submit it to a special committee ; but I entreat 
you, gentlemen, not to throw the responsibility upon the 
School Board. We have full enough of trouble already 
for our comfort, if I may be allowed the expression. 

Lawyer [recoanized~\. — I am well aware of the delicate 
nature of the task contemplated m the section of the reso- 
lution before the meeting. The location of any public 
building — especially of a school-house — is, as a general 
thing, the signal for the manifestation of no little dissat- 
isfaction. It will be too near to some, and too distant 
from others. Yet the question of location must be met in 
some way ; and I could think of no better plan than the 
one proposed — leaving the matter in the hands of those 
who, as fathers of the town (elected too, I believe, by 
almost a unanimous vote), may well be judged most com- 
petent to consult and provide, to the best of their ability, 
for the wants of all their children. 
Watts. — Mr. Moderator ! 
Moderator. — Mr. Watts has the floor. 
Watts. — Mr. Moderator : Although it chances to be 
correct— fortunately so, shall I say? — that the members 
of the present Board of Supervisors are each of them, 
more or less, interested in real estate in this town, yet I 
take it upon myself, as President of the Board, to say 
that no such consideration will influence in the slightest 
degree their action relative to the location of the proposed 
new school-house, should this meeting choose to submit it 
to us. Indeed, I may say here that all temptation is hap- 
pily removed, inasmuch as no less than five eligible central 
lots have been offered to us, free of expense, should the 
building be voted by the town. 

Borax. — This, Mr. Moderator, removes every objec- 
tion ; and I am glad that I am citizen of a town which 
can claim so many citizens of such unwonted liberality. 
Lawyer. — I call for the question. 
Moderator. — The question is called for. Those in 
favor of its adoption will say " Aye." [Nearly all shout 
u Aye.] Those opposed, ''No." [Messrs. Oldtime, Grovel, 



POPULAR DIALOGUES J 99 

and Twitter, only, "Noes."] The ayes have it, and the 
third and last section is adopted. Any further business, 
gentlemen ? 

Willing. — I move we adjourn. 

Gump. — Mis-ter Mod-e-rat-or : Before that motion is 
put I would like to say a word. 

Willing. — I withdraw my motion. 

Moderator. — 'Squire Gump has the floor. 

Gump. — Mis-ter Mod-e-rat-or : We haven't finished our 
business yet — hem — in a par-lia-ment-a-ry manner — hem ! 
Leastways, not as it used to be done here when I was a 
member of the Le-gis-la ter. We've only adopted the 
re-so-lu-tion by sections — hem. I now move you, Mis-ter 
Mod-e-rat-or, sir, that the whole resolution be adopted — 
hem ! 

Lawyer. — The 'Squire is right [bowing deferentially to 
' Squire']. I second the motion. 

[Moderator puts the motion, and declares it carried— 
only three "noes" as before.] 

Willing. — I now renew my motion, Mr. Moderator, 
that this meeting do now adjourn. 

Oldtime. — Before that are motion's put afore us, Mr. 
Moderator, Pd like to propound a question : Where on 
airth's your three thousan' dollars for a new school-house 
comin' from ? 

[Outbursts of laughter — amidst which the motion to ad- 
journ is put and carried.] 



Good=Humor 



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^j[0MOH 






Reading and Recitation 

By Henry Firth Wood 
Humorist and Reciter 
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Cloth, 50 Cents 
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Choice Dialogues 




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I Wff By Mrs. J. W. Shoemaker 

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18 



Eureka Entertainments 

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S Supper and Sociable 
Girls' Buck Saw Exercise 
The Peak Sisters/ 
A Vernal Tree 
A Lemon Party 
A Brown Sociable 
A Night Cap Sociable 
A Poverty Party 
Among the Trees 
Harvest Home Sociable 
The Old-Fashioned Dis- 
trict School 
A Pansy Party 
The Temple of Fame 



I 



An Evening with Art 
An Emblem Service 
The Old Curiosity Shop 
Hints for Thanksgiving 
For Christmas Time 
Parlor Base-Ball 
The Kalendar Kermesse 
Quaker Meeting and Soct 

able 
The Cob Web Party 
Acting Proverbs 

hadow Pantomimes .<=«=*"" 
The Children of the Biblf 



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Holiday Selections 

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TIONS 
By Sara Sigourney Rice 
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The Penn Publishing Company 

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